


Remember You Have Chance and Possibility

by out_there



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-13
Updated: 2009-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 13:03:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Let me spell this out in terms you'll understand," Alex says, pushing a hand through his hair and taking a grounding breath.  "If. I. Can't. Find. Shales. There's no way in hell some kid with no experience stands a chance."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember You Have Chance and Possibility

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**oxoniensis**](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/), who did a wonderful job betaing this and finding the spots that needed improvement. A huge thanks to [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/userinfo?user=aurora_84)[**aurora_84**](http://www.dreamwidth.org/userinfo?user=aurora_84) and [](http://www.dreamwidth.org/userinfo?user=damaduende)[**damaduende**](http://www.dreamwidth.org/userinfo?user=damaduende) who encouraged and supported this wip over the 12 months it took to finish. (I can't believe I started this in September 2008. I need to be more disciplined about finishing what I start.) Title comes from a line in Something For Kate's song, _Jerry, Stand Up_. This is an AU set before the start of S1.
> 
> Warning: Mentions of violent attacks (from Shales). Only mentioned in passing, but better to warn than not.

Mahone always gets his fugitive, always. Sometimes within the first few hours and sometimes it takes a couple of weeks, but he's never lost one yet.

His track record should buy him some respect; instead, he gets this.

"You want me to hand over the Shales case?" Alex isn't yelling, not yet. But it's a close thing. "You think some kid fresh out of the academy can find him when I can't?"

"Mahone," Jason Searby tries, and then softens it to, "Alex. Calm down."

"I am calm. I've been up for almost thirty hours--" He'd been close to Shales, he'd been _so_ close, but by the time he got to the Middle of Nowhere, Idaho there'd been one more body: a seventeen year old girl this time, bled out slowly, still goddamn warm to the touch. "--but I'm being very patient in the face of bureaucratic idiocy!"

Now, possibly, he's yelling. Just as well he slammed the office door shut when he stormed in.

"No-one's handing over your case," Jason tries again. "And he's not fresh out of the academy--"

"Let me spell this out in terms you'll understand," Alex says, pushing a hand through his hair and taking a grounding breath. "If. I. Can't. Find. Shales. There's no way in hell some kid with no experience stands a chance."

"He's smart, Alex." Flipping open a manila folder, Jason spills the kid's employee file across the desk. Alex only lets himself glance down for a second -- takes in the high numbers of an IQ test, a scrawl of 'satisfactory fieldwork, avoid where possible' and a picture of a wide-eyed white kid who'd get carded in any bar -- but Jason notices it. And Jason knows him well enough to know that he might be tired, frustrated and feeling very insulted, but Alex isn't stupid enough to argue against those results. "Smart enough they want him chained to a desk but don't want to say it. And he's not taking over the case. He'll be working for you, as part of your team. He might bring new insight to the case."

"I doubt that," Alex mutters, grabbing the file and stalking out. He takes a vicious pleasure in slamming the door again.

***

After Alex drags himself home, cocoons himself in the guest room and snatches nine blissful hours of unconsciousness, he reviews Scofield's file. It's borderline illegal for him to have a confidential employee file and he definitely shouldn't have it sitting in his house, but in the grand scheme of things, Alex doesn't think it matters. Compared to Trisha Dodson's pale skin and vacant green eyes, compared to the expression on her parents' faces when they ID'd the body, respecting Scofield's privacy doesn't rate a mention.

It's 4am but his body-clock's shot to hell -- it's always shot to hell -- so he helps himself to leftovers out of the fridge and digs his reading glasses out of his bag. While he's waiting for the microwave to ding, Alex spreads the papers over the small wooden table in the kitchen, runs his fingers over the tiny dents left by Cameron's cars and sometimes Cameron's fork, and pours himself a glass of coke. He gets a fork out of the drawer and chews on lukewarm tuna casserole as he reads.

Scofield, Michael; born 1978. Dead parents, only brother died at fifteen, but that's not unusual for those who end up in the agency. Double degrees from Loyola University, recruited in college, and Jason's right, the kid's smart. Alex frowns as he chews, and thinks about the IQ score. He's got nothing against smart people in theory. Trouble is that in practice, kids this smart think they already know everything. They're always desperate for recognition or approval and Alex lacks the patience to fuss over them to get a little bit of use out of them.

He flicks pages, searching for details of Scofield's transfer and his last assignment, hoping for an idea of how long he'll be a thorn in Alex's side. Got recruited straight to Intelligence, which Alex was expecting given those scores, then took a sideways step to Drugs. There's a letter of commendation for his efforts in piecing together evidence of a smuggling network and then a page later there's the transfer. Alex blinks, chews, swallows and then re-reads the letter carefully.

Once he's looking for it, he sees it: the invisible touch of Internal Affairs. It's all in the words that aren't said, the results that aren't mentioned. A letter of commendation means there was doubt, someone felt it necessary to record in black and white that Scofield was investigated and found innocent. An investigation means a death or someone was dirty. Given that it's drugs and big money, Alex is betting on both. Probably an agent's death, Alex is guessing, something related to information sourced by Scofield, information that was either wrong or was leaked. Once you're investigated everybody knows, so moving departments makes sense.

Pushing up his glasses to rub his eyes, Alex realizes he's been given a babysitting job. He's got a kid who's been scared by IA, probably not too keen about the idea of working for the FBI, but too bright for them to let go easily. They want Scofield out of the firing range until they think of a better way to handle him; he's been dumped on Alex's desk because catching felons sounds exciting but it's mostly sitting in an office, sifting through evidence. Agency politics is still politics -- devious and overly complicated, and just as often painfully wrong -- but Alex is good at following orders. (Sometimes.)

***

Dealing with Scofield is surprisingly easy. He's not obnoxious, which Alex had worried about. Instead, he's polite, quiet, cautiously friendly in a way that makes Alex sure it's not natural; Scofield's making an effort not to ruffle feathers.

Amazingly enough, he looks younger in person. Brown hair falls over his forehead, curls over his collar, and he looks like it's his first day out of college. Smooth clean-shaven cheeks and full, dark lips, and a tendency to suck on the end of his pen as he reads. (Alex knows he'll share that last detail with Pam, knows it's unprofessional but he'll end up laughing at the twink pin-up Scofield could have been in another life.)

Apart from the baby-faced appearance, Scofield fades into the background. When Alex dumps boxes of scraps and letters on his desk, saying, "Look through these. See if you can spot anything," Scofield gives a nod and a half-smile, and says, "Yes, sir." Alex pays close attention, but he can't detect any sarcasm.

Scofield looks through them diligently, comes in at 7.30 every morning, stays later than the rest. He might be trying to impress Alex but secretly, it's annoying. Alex won't say it because if Scofield is a workaholic, it won't do any good, and if Scofield's just trying to make a good impression, saying anything only gives Scofield an excuse to slack off. But the rest of them understand that after 6.30pm, when the office is quiet and the skyline outside is still light with oncoming summer, it's Alex's time to pace, to try crazy ideas, to go over and over and over the information until he forces something new out of it.

But three nights in a row he comes out and Scofield's still at his desk, pen between his teeth, looking at bank statements like they hold the meaning of life or Shales' GPS coordinates. It's off-putting. It makes Alex retreat back to his office, back to his desk, makes him idly turn a few pages and then head home to read Cameron a bedtime story instead.

***

Agent Lang spots it, because she knows him best. "You don't like Scofield?"

Alex ignores the question. He's got better things to do than discuss office gossip.

"He's a good guy. Nice enough," she says, looking more than a little amused, "and he's smart."

"I don't have to like him for him to do his job," Alex bites back, reading about the remains of a young man in Toledo, trying to work out if it's connected to Shales or not.

"You really don't like him," Lang says, smirking into her Starbucks coffee cup.

In revenge, Alex gives her the Toledo file and tells her to get more information on the weapon used.

***

For the next week, Shales goes to ground. There are no sightings, no reports, no victims, nothing Alex can use. He goes through crime scene photos, badgers witnesses over the phone; he snaps at everyone, even Lang until she turns around and says, "You'd better be staying in the city tonight. You take that attitude home, you'll be waking up to a divorce."

The comment catches him by surprise. Shocks him out of the bad mood, at least for a moment. "I'll-- I'll do that," Alex says, nodding at her. "I'll call Pam and say I'm working late."

"You've got to turn the job off," she says, dropping her voice and stepping close enough to rest a hand on Alex's elbow. She's seen enough, worked with him long enough that he believes her. "If you can't, then don't leave the office. You can't take these things home with you. I'll see you in the morning."

Alex rubs a hand across his cheek and thinks that he's done this before. Spent a night in the office, gone over photos and letters and reports until something clicks, until he knows where they'll run to next. He's good at his job. He's never lost a man, and Shales is not going to be the first.

He heads out to the main office, intending to get coffee and stay up until words blur before his eyes, but there's an island of light in the far corner. Scofield's hunched over his desk, a small lamp on, no other light. His tie is loose, collar button undone and he's sucking on the end of his pen, looking at printed pages of figures. Bank statements, Alex realizes as he steps closer.

"Don't you have a home to go to?" At another time, that phrase might sound teasing, friendly; tonight, Alex's tone is sharp enough to cut.

Scofield only looks up and pulls the pen from his mouth. "I'm not allowed to take evidence home," he says, which isn't an answer. Except for the way that it is.

It's as telling as the trash bin beside Scofield's desk. It's full of green Mountain Dew cans and yellow bags of Cheetos with the occasional silver foil of a candy bar wrapper. It's the debris of a vending machine diet, proof that Scofield hasn't left the floor but he's caffeinated enough to work through the night.

Alex would rather Scofield went home but judging by the lack of personal photos on his desk, there's probably no-one waiting for him. He's never seen Scofield typing excitedly with the over-wary posture of misusing agency time for personal emails. He's never heard Scofield take a call that wasn't related to the case. For all Alex knows, Scofield folds himself into the stationery cupboard at night; given the lack of personality around Scofield's workstation, that could be possible.

"You've not going to find him tonight," Alex says, and what he means is 'Go away. Let me do my job. Give me the space and the time to fix this.'

Scofield shrugs. "Maybe not. But eventually."

"Yeah?"

"He'll slip up," Scofield says, cold and certain. "There are too many crime scenes. Every time he gets somewhere new, he leaves a body to show he's there, to prove you haven't caught him yet. If he wanted to disappear, all he'd have to do is stop killing, slip across the border. He doesn't want to escape, he wants your attention. Probably the media attention. He likes seeing his face on the TV, knowing that he's smarter than you."

"He isn't," Alex snarls. He's already seen the pattern, he knows that Shales is taunting him. He knows that the closer he gets, the more pleasure Shales finds in leaving a bloodied trail behind him. This isn't like _The Fugitive_, this isn't a fun mental challenge; there are bodies. Every hour that slips through his fingers, every day that he doesn't drag Shales back behind bars, there's another body to show his incompetence.

"He's so worried about keeping your attention, about showing off, he'll make a mistake. He'll fall into an old pattern and then you'll get him."

A few months ago, Alex would have accepted that faith in his abilities without question, would have almost expected it from everyone working under him. Now, he feels like a fraud. "You're going to do that through bank statements?"

"It's a start," Scofield says with another shrug. He reaches for the open can of Mountain Dew sitting by his phone. "If I find anything, I'll let you know."

***

Two weeks go by and another body turns up. It's a different MO. Shales has traded his hunting knife for a blunt bread knife, used force instead of precision, but Alex takes one look at the crime scene photos and knows that it's him. He can't say why the jagged carvings are Shales' work, but he knows it's true.

He tells Lang and she frowns, saying, "It's 4.30 on a Friday."

Alex blinks. Checks his watch to make sure she's right, then asks, "So?"

"The body is four days old and you have no evidence linking this to Shales. You're going on a hunch."

"I have to justify my hunches now?" She's never needed proof before.

"Wasn't what I said, Mahone. You've got no evidence, and even if you did, it was four days ago and Shales will be gone by now. Half an hour before the weekend starts, there's no way you'll get approval to send a team in to investigate."

"I don't need a team--" Alex starts but Lang glares, so he shuts his mouth.

"You're chasing a psychopath who's sent his victim's hair to this office, addressed personally to you. You shouldn't be going alone, just in case he is there."

"Fine. I'll take Scofield. He clearly doesn't have a life."

Lang gives him a no-nonsense look that shows she's not distracted by Alex's petty jibe. "Even if taking Scofield were an acceptable option -- which it isn't -- he took a week's leave."

"I didn't approve that," Alex says. Then he remembers Scofield bringing in some form for him to sign a few days ago. He hasn't paid much attention to things that don't involve Shales, so possibly… "I approved that?"

"Yes, you did." Shifting the gym bag on her shoulder, she adds, "This can wait until Monday. Wait until local authorities find anything linking Shales to it. Right?"

Alex agrees, wishes her a good weekend, and waits until Lang walks out of the office, until he's finally, blissfully alone, and then calls Pam to tell her he's working the weekend. She pointedly reminds him of her sister's birthday, that all three of them had RSVP'd, and he says she's capable of going without him, and it dissolves into one of those icy silences that means Pam understands but she's going to be angry about this anyway.

Then Alex orders tickets online, charges them to the government credit card, and grabs the spare set of clothes he keeps in his office on his way out the door.

***

Alex has spent years driving through small towns. Eventually, one blends into the next. There's the same collection of main street stores, hardware and videos, coffee and home-baked pie; somewhere hidden from passersby, there'll be an incongruously large supermarket and a few fast food chains, sometimes a Walmart or Target. Alex grew up in a town like this, and he knows they're never as quaint and wholesome as they appear.

He doesn't care one way or the other that Shales' trail leads to a tiny town in Texas, or that he can still feel the ice of winter in the night air. The only thing he cares about is making this the last time he steps into a chilled, spotless morgue and sees one of Shales victims laid out on stainless steel.

After the morgue, Alex heads straight to the local Sherriff's office. He spends the night sitting in moderately comfortable desk chairs, drinking weak office coffee and going through their homicide case. The local force isn't exactly happy to see him -- typical reaction to feds stepping in and demanding case details – but Alex ignores it and concentrates on photos of the body. The killing was brutal: jagged slashes not precise, clean cuts. But it still shows Shales appetite for tying them down and letting them bleed out slow, making the death long and painful, terrifying. It leaves a sour taste in the back of Alex's throat.

He spends hours but doesn't find anything concrete. There's an urgency, a desperation in this crime that wasn't in the previous ones. Like Shales is running out of time. Alex doubts it has anything to do with the FBI getting close. Shales doesn't fear them; he's never considered them enough of a threat.

Jittery and tired, Alex leaves the station. He raises a hand against the bright early sun, vaguely surprised that it's already morning. He shoulders his overnight bag and goes to get a decent cup of coffee.

He orders a double-shot of espresso, virtually on auto-pilot. Scanning the coffee house, the artistically mismatched wooden chairs and bright lace curtains, Alex looks for the right place to sit. He wants to be close enough to the front window to see the street but far enough back that he won't be seen easily. Alex isn't planning on staking out the coffee shop all day but he could use a couple hours to think. It's a slim chance that he'll spot Shales standing under one of the oak trees lining the road, or see him wander into the drugstore on the corner, but ridiculous coincidences sometimes happen.

There's a kid in a baseball cap and a bright red sweater. The sweater's too large and the fabric bunches over his elbows, hangs over the corners of his shoulders. Alex finds himself glancing back.

Alex trusts his instincts, so he picks up his cup and wanders over for a closer look. The kid looks up, and Alex tries to hide his shock at discovering Scofield's face under the cap. "Going to join me?" Scofield asks neutrally. If he's surprised, he doesn't show it.

Alex pulls out a chair and sits down at the table. He takes his time stirring two sugars into the coffee and then keeps his voice low. "What are you doing here?"

Scofield watches him, keeps his face blank, and Alex has to give the kid points for it. He's pretty good at hiding his reaction, apart from the tension around his jaw, the microsecond narrowing of his eyes. "I'm on leave," Scofield says.

"You need to do better than that."

"It's a vacation," and Alex can almost hear him swallowing back the 'sir'. "And you?"

"Local morgue. Another of Shales' victims." Alex watches for Scofield's tells, the reassuring way his eyes widen in surprise. "Body was found yesterday so I need to know what's going on here. I don't believe in this amount of coincidence."

"I am on leave," Scofield says, drinking an iced coffee drowning in whipped cream. He looks down, watching his fingers on the tall glass and Alex is pretty sure it's just a way of avoiding eye contact.

"Either you know more than the rest of the class and you chose not to share, or you really fooled the guys in Internal Affairs. I'm not sure which option I'd prefer."

"You shouldn't have access to Internal Affairs files."

Alex smiles smugly. "Of course not." He doesn't. He's never seen them and there's no way in the world they'd let him near them. But it doesn't take a genius to work out something happened, and Scofield's reaction confirms it.

There's an art to getting a suspect to talk. Most of it involves not explaining. Don't explain how they were found, just tell them the facts and wait until they get uncomfortable enough to try to justify it. Scofield lasts longer than most. He sits there in silence for minutes, one hand wrapped around his glass.

When he pulls his fingers free, they're cherry-red from the cold. "An agent died. We were working on a smuggling ring, I found certain information, and an agent died."

"That's the whole story?" There's no way that's the whole story.

Scofield takes another sip and Alex knows this moment. This moment where they decide how much to trust, how much to confess. So Alex leans back, leaves his arms slack on the table, the pale skin of his inner wrists showing. He tilts his head slightly to the side, ducks his chin, lets his body language speak for him.

It's an old technique, easy to use as long as he doesn't think about who he's using it on. As long as he thinks of Scofield as a suspect who's lied to him, not as one of his guys dealing with a case that went wrong. Not as an inexperienced agent feeling responsible for a colleague's death.

He needs to know. He needs to know what happened and why, and how useful Scofield can be to him. He can't afford the pointless indulgence of sympathy.

"No," Scofield says eventually, back straight, shoulders set beneath the concealing slouch of the sweater.

Alex waits.

"I was putting together information, tracking down deliveries." Scofield scans the wide street, grips one hand around the edge of the table, fingers flat on the top, as if he's fighting the instinct to run. "I came up with times, places, and they kept getting lucky. Really lucky. Things were moved, no-one important was there, jobs were outsourced. Once or twice, that's luck. Four or five times?"

"There's a leak."

"I told my superiors and they wouldn't listen. All they wanted to know was where my information came from. If they didn't know the source, they said, they couldn't trust the information. So I told them."

Alex blinks. Scofield seems less prone to ego and pride than most agents he knows. He couldn't imagine Scofield refusing to explain how he'd calculated something unless... the source was a person. "You had an informant."

Scofield nods. "A man called Fernando Sucre. He was a good guy. He found himself in a bad situation but he was trying to do the right thing. Then he disappeared."

"And your superiors?"

"Didn't care. Said that one guy running out on his girlfriend wasn't suspicious."

"But you thought it was?"

"Sucre wouldn't have run, he wouldn't have left her behind. If he'd had to go, he would've taken her too." Scofield's gaze drops to the table. His expression softens but his voice gets harder. "So I decided to find the leak. Told different agents different information, and Agent Aggelidis got shot. She was the leak."

Scofield sounds hard and angry, but he's avoiding eye-contact. The protective curl of his shoulders suggests he's uncomfortable with his part in this, regardless of how well he can justify it.

Another supervisor might be concerned about the death of an agent, about the stubborn streak of independence that would lead Scofield to lie to his fellow officers, to purposely feed them false information. Alex isn't. He understands the motivation too well: there's nothing more frustrating than following orders that are willfully, recklessly stupid.

Alex also knows that given the right direction, the right amount of freedom and purpose, that kind of agent can be invaluable. "Why move to my team?"

"You have a reputation for doing it all yourself." Scofield looks up and there's a twist to his mouth that might be a smile. "You have a reputation for being so good at this that everybody stands back and lets you do it."

Alex shrugs. It's not entirely untrue. "And?"

"I'm sick of putting the information together and being excluded from the plan. If they'd told me what they were doing, Aggelidis wouldn't have died. I could have told them the stakes were too high and they needed more officers." A pause as Scofield swallows an iced mouthful of liquid. "I thought that if I found Shales for you, found proof and told you where he was, I'd prove myself. That next time, you'd trust my information without needing the source."

Alex swallows the last of his espresso and thinks. "Maybe next time I'll trust you," he says, rubbing a hand across his unshaved cheek, "but right now, I need to know what led you here."

"Bank statements," Scofield replies easily. "I've got copies at the motel."

***

The motel is dingy, coordinating walls and bedspreads in faded yellow and avocado green. Neatly made double bed in the centre of the room, bathroom door at the back, small round table at the front. Alex sits at it, as Scofield pulls a locked briefcase from under the bed, punches in a combination and pulls out photocopies of bank statements. There are dates highlighted in green, withdrawal locations highlighted in orange and the name of the account – Jason Banks – in neon yellow.

The name rings a bell but Alex has been up since six yesterday morning. He can't quite place it. "Jason Banks. Where do I know that name from?"

"Shales' cousin. Step-cousin, technically," Michael replies. "In some of the old family letters, there are mentions of him spending summers in this town."

"You came here because his cousin has a bank account in a town they vacationed in as kids?"

"I had a hunch. Shales is smart enough not to get caught but none of his accounts have been touched. It's pretty hard to stay invisible without any money. He's been travelling across the country, so it's pretty unlikely he'd have hidden cash everywhere he's been before he got arrested. A bank account in someone else's name is far more likely."

"You're sure this is his?"

Scofield nods and pulls out more photocopies. One's a bank application form for Jason Banks and the other is a form from Oscar Shales: the handwriting and the signatures are almost identical. "The account received deposits while Shales was free, had no transactions while he was incarcerated, and has had withdrawals since he got out. I got the bank to fax me copies of the withdrawal slips," Scofield says, placing it next to the other two pages. Again, the signatures match.

"Does it match the bodies?"

Scofield unfolds a map. Some towns are marked in bright pink, and Alex remembers them. All of them. Remembers the bodies that he saw at each of those places. Other towns, usually within 70 miles, are marked in orange. Alex takes a second look at the bank statement, the dates of those withdrawals. "He made the withdrawal and then killed within a week," Alex says slowly and Scofield nods. "Where was the last withdrawal?"

"Fifty miles south of here. Eight days ago."

Alex can't help the sinking disappointment. For a moment, a sentence ago, he'd hoped Scofield had cracked it, hoped Shales' last victim had been found. But Scofield's just following another trail, as far behind Shales as Alex is. "The body's already been found. We'll get a team down here Monday, sift through the crime scene again, but he's gone."

"I don't think so." When Alex looks up, Scofield is staring at the numbers, tapping a finger beside the account balance. "I think he's going to withdraw the rest of the money. The home branch is in this town so he'd have to be here to do it."

"Otherwise he'd have to fax ID through," Alex reasons out loud, "And that increases the chances that some bank employee will recognize him."

"He'll take the cash out, drive a few hours and cross the border to Mexico, take a plane from there to wherever he wants to go. It's just a hunch," Scofield adds apologetically, "but if I were Shales, if I'd avoided the authorities so long that no one was really paying attention to my face on the news anymore, this is when I'd run."

Alex pulls off his glasses slowly, thinking it through. He knows there's something different about the last victim, more force, more brutality, less control. If Shales is planning to leave... It might have been an unplanned killing, a temptation Shales knew he should have resisted even as he did it. "It fits," he says to Scofield. "So you're here, waiting for him to take the money out. Why were you in the café?"

"The bank's across the street. Close enough to see him, far enough not to look too suspicious."

"You think he'll take it out this weekend?" Alex asks, thinking there's no way Shales would risk that: the bank manager might not be in and a large cash withdrawal might be noticed. Better to wait for the weekdays, walk in wearing a business suit and sunglasses, withdraw the cash in the morning and disappear with it by nightfall.

Scofield shrugs. "I wouldn't but it never hurts to be sure."

"Fine. You go back out, keep an eye out, get a feel for the town. I'm going to get some sleep."

***

It's not until Alex wakes up a few hours later -- still tired, still gritty, but sharp enough to focus -- that he realizes Scofield hadn't argued. He'd nodded and accepted Alex's orders, acted on them without any of the grandstanding Alex usually gets from smart agents. Scofield didn't even complain about Alex commandeering his bed.

Alex flicks on the kettle, opens three packets of instant coffee and pours them all into one motel-sized mug. He considers taking a shower but settles for splashing lukewarm water on his face. He can't be bothered shaving. When the kettle boils, he makes himself a coffee, adds two tiny creamers and laughs at himself for avoiding the sugar and tearing open a packet of artificial sweetener instead. Of all the things that might kill him, excess calories are the least likely; he watches his sweet-tooth out of vanity, not for any practical reason. It feels hypocritical but there isn't anyone who'd call him on it.

Pulling the briefcase out from under the bed, he finds Scofield left it conveniently unlocked. He settles himself at the table and unpacks the sheaves of paper.

The coffee's hot on Alex's tongue as he flips through pages highlighted in straight lines, notes in neat handwriting penciled in the edges. He could talk to Scofield about case notes staying where they belong but Alex understands. Secretly, he approves. Sometimes, a good agent has to follow their gut, their instincts, although Alex never would have figured Scofield as the type to have the spine to back it up.

Opening the briefcase, Alex is reminded of Scofield's desk drawers: stationery neat and ordered, arranged by color and type of pen. In a neat pile arranged by date, there are past bank statements and maps carefully highlighted, and at the very bottom, Alex finds the letter. The reference to this town is underlined lightly in pencil. He reads it once and it seems fine. It seems like an ordinary letter. He reads it again. There's nothing particularly suspicious there, no warning bells. The words, the phrases, sound like childhood memories, like the type of letter you'd send to a distant family member stuck in jail, to someone you weren't close to, didn't really want to be close to, but somehow felt obligated to cheer up. And then… And then he spots it.

The sentences that start with capitals. The capital letters that aren't quite the same as the other capital letters. There's a code there, maybe, so Alex pulls out pen and paper, starts scribbling down the sentences he spots. Uses a separate sheet to write down the sentences that are higher, because maybe he's looking at the wrong details. It takes him three hours, and he still can't trace it back. He can't make it fit, he can't force any new knowledge out of it. But there's something there, Alex knows it.

And then he notices something else: Scofield isn't back. It's dark and he's been gone all day, but he's not back. Alex suddenly has a very bad feeling about this. It's the kind of feeling that comes right before a bullet. Alex knows.

He has the gunshot scars to prove it.

***

He checks out the coffee shop first but it's closed. The front glass windows look into a dark and empty store, a clean stretch of empty bench and chairs upside down on tables. Alex heads around the back, hoping for a sign of someone working late but he has no luck.

He goes back to the motel. Scofield still isn't back and Alex is pretty sure something's wrong. When he closes his weary eyes, Alex can see crime scenes against the back of his eyelids, pale corpses sliced and surrounded by blood. He briefly thinks, _But they were civilians_ and then he remembers Scofield's employee file, Scofield's purely theoretical field training.

Shales is Alex's man, Alex's problem to solve, and he was tired enough to send the kid out on his own. Stupid enough to think there wasn't any real danger.

Alex starts making calls. First, car rental companies in the area. There was a car out front of Scofield's room and Alex heard a car start after Scofield left, so it's reasonable assumption that Scofield rented one.

The fourth company tells him what he needs to know: that Scofield hired a car when he came here and thankfully, it has GPS. There are times when being an FBI agent is all about confidence, when using the swagger and self-importance of being a fed is necessary; Alex milks it for all it's worth. He gets the coordinates of the car, the fact that it's stationary, and then he grabs a map and drives out there.

He finds the car -- an unimpressive four-door blue Hyundai, cheap and practical. He finds it from the registration number and the location, but more importantly he finds it sitting on the side of a country road. Alex pulls up behind and leaves his lights on. It's dark out here, too far from the town to have streetlights, so dark that when he looks up, the stars above are clear and bright.

He slips out his gun. Cradles it in his palm. He takes one deep breath and forces his shoulders to drop and relax. Takes a second slow breath and listens. He can hear a faint breeze through the woodland, the low hoot of an owl, but otherwise it's silent. The car is quiet, shadowed, so Alex gets a torch in his other hand and steps toward the passenger side.

He walks carefully. It's obvious enough that it could be a trap. It's something Shales would do and that's worrying Alex. Shales is smart enough to spend months just out of Alex's grasp, so he's smart enough to kidnap some too-bright kid lacking the self-preservation skills to stay safe behind a desk. There's a sliver of anger hot down Alex's spine. He's angry at Scofield for coming out here; he's angry at himself for not being sharper, for not living up to the unquestioning faith Scofield seems to have in him. But mostly he's angry at Shales. He's furious. For every dead body that shows up on a morgue table, for every family member Alex has been forced to talk to, for every interview he's had to give, saying they're one step closer and warning the public to watch for Shales' face. And the idea that the next victim is going to be one of Alex's guys makes him livid.

But he pushes it down, and in, and listens. He walks carefully towards the car, one step at a time, and keeps listening as he gets to the side windows. When he flashes the torchlight inside, the car's empty: nothing in the front, nothing in the back. A quick knock on the boot and the hollow sound confirms it's empty too.

Alex holsters his gun and takes a closer look. There's a brown-red smear on the back passenger window. Craning his neck, Alex recognizes the dark shadow on the backseat as blood: not a lot, not a fatal wound, but blood. Something happened, something mildly violent, something involving one of his. Alex is good at his job -- very good at his job -- and sometimes, that means thinking strategically, thinking practically. It means taking a moment to think past the emotional reaction, past the initial urge to go charging into the unknown, and do what needs to be done.

Alex pulls out his cell phone and dials Lang. It goes to a machine but that's fine. Alex leaves a recording, stating his name as "Special Agent Alexander Mahone," and stating the time, the coordinates. That Scofield might be in trouble, that Alex suspects Shales has him, that he's following the trail while it's fresh and if Lang doesn't hear back from him within an hour, she should probably organize a search team to find both of them.

He doesn't consider calling Pam. He needs his mind clear for this.

***

It's muscle memory and Alex doesn't even have to think about it. Duck down, tuck his elbows and shoulders in tight, work through the underbrush with as little noise as possible. Partly it's old Ranger training: keep your head down, keep your gun close, stay alert and be careful. Part of it is Quantico training, and the rest is instinct from nine years of tracking down fugitives, of hunting wanted, scared, desperate men and sometimes coming back with gunshot wounds.

He steps slowly, carefully. Freezes at each new noise until he can place it as animals, the wind, the distant rumble of a car on the country road behind him.

Alex isn't a woodsman by any stretch of the imagination. His idea of a holiday includes a motel or hotel room; he hasn't slept in a tent since he left Iraq. But he's picked up some basic tracking skills and he knows enough to spot the broken branches, the scrape along the ground of something reasonably heavy being dragged. An unconscious body, he tells himself (because there wasn't enough blood for Scofield to be dead).

He follows the shallow marks to the black, hulking outline of a cabin. The roof is a dark line against the indigo sky, cutting through the bright stars overhead.

Old, run-down, out of the way: it's the type of environment Shales' prefers. He usually dumps the bodies somewhere else, but the blood-soaked scene of the crime is always somewhere isolated, somewhere people can scream and whimper without being heard.

Alex checks his gun -- makes sure the safety isn't on -- then shoves his flashlight in his back pocket and takes a slow step onto the wooden porch. He listens, but can't hear footsteps, so he eases the front door open. He gives a quick moment of thanks that the hinges don't squeak.

Alex steps inside, weight on the balls of his feet. Then a second step. He freezes again. Waits for his eyes to adjust to the darker shadows contrasting against the square of blue-grey light coming through a bare window.

The room is dark and it seems empty; just a stretch of black in front of his eyes. At the wall, beneath the window, there's a gleam of metal, a bench. Alex recognizes it as a kitchen sink.

Alex blinks slowly, and near the bench -- in front of it -- he makes out the straight lines of corners, slightly darker lines of furniture leading to the ground. He moves closer and it becomes a table.

As he gets more accustomed to the gloom, he notices that the table-top isn't flat. There's something covering it. It looks like folded piles of cloth until he's a few steps away, then he sees fingers hanging over the edge. The messy line of rope cutting across the pale skin of inner wrist.

He wants to run over there. Wants to check for a pulse, check for bleeding. He wants this to be okay. But gut instinct stops him. Gut instinct tells him Shales is smart and devious; gut instinct says this is a trap.

So he moves over to the wall, presses his back against it. He doesn't pull out his torch, doesn't look for the pool of blood he can imagine, for the slashes he's seen across too many torsos. Alex just breathes -- slow, deep, quiet -- and he listens.

To the sound of his own breathing. The relentless pounding of his own heart.

There's a rustle.

The figure on the table moves. Scofield, it has to be Scofield. (He can't have been too late. It can't be somebody else.) Scofield moves again, turns his head, and in the colorless light, Alex sees his hand move. Sees him point his index finger up and then point two fingers behind him, around the corner of the kitchen cupboard.

One assailant, Alex thinks. One assailant in that direction.

He could shout, he could yell, but instead he turns the gun around his hands. Grips the barrel tightly and lifts the butt like a club.

Then he moves.

Two sharp steps, moving fast, bringing his arm around wide. Tensing up to his shoulders, using momentum and body weight to connect solidly with flesh.

There's a sickening sound as metal meets skin and bone, and then the disorderly rustle-thunk of a body collapsing. No sound, no movement after that so Alex pulls out the flashlight. He needs to be sure it's Shales.

Alex tangles a hand in the salt-and-pepper shoulder-length hair and pulls the head up. There's a unkempt beard and the face is thinner, more weathered than it looks in the mug shots, but it's Shales.

He nudges Shales with one controlled kick, looking for a reaction. Making sure he's unconscious. He's tempted to "check" again -- a lot harder this time -- but he's an FBI agent. He has his integrity and he has one of his guys tied down on a table, so instead, Alex pulls out handcuffs. He secures Shales' wrists behind his back and drags the body into the middle of the floor, where the light from the kitchen window falls.

Belatedly, Alex feels for a pulse. Then he calls emergency services: local police for back-up, ambulance for Scofield. Then he takes the torch, finds a knife in the kitchen drawer and walks to the table.

Scofield says nothing as Alex forces the mostly blunt knife to saw through the ropes.

***

The wait for the paramedics passes quickly but it's still a relief when they show up. It's fifteen minutes at most, but it's fifteen minutes of silence and waiting. Alex leans against the kitchen bench, staring at Shales, willing him to move, to try to escape, to give Alex one little excuse to pull out his gun and fire on instinct. He keeps an eye on Scofield too.

Scofield sits up very gingerly and keeps two hands pressed flat to the table for balance. He's still fully dressed and his clothes aren't soaked with blood, so Alex thinks the kid will be fine, except for a concussion and a few bruises.

If this was Lang, he'd say, "What the hell happened?" and "What are you going to do differently next time?" and "Type up your report and then get out of here. Take the week off, go stay with your sister." But he doesn't know Scofield well enough to snarl at him, to be angry that he was in danger, and where Lang would understand, Scofield might not. Besides, it's not like Alex is blameless here. Scofield might have been acting on his own information but Alex was the agent in charge. He told Scofield to go ahead. Alex knows where the responsibility lies.

When the paramedics come, he shoos them away from Shales -- still unconscious -- and makes sure they check out Scofield first. When the cops arrive a minute later, he throws the keys of his rental car to one of them, and tells them to take Scofield to the nearest hospital and make sure he gets looked over by a qualified doctor.

Alex spends the rest of the night with Shales: looming over him as paramedics strap him to the gurney; sitting in the back of the ambulance as they travel, keeping an eye on the cop car following them; sitting in Shales hospital room, keeping an eye on him while the local force keep a man guarding the door. He stays alert through coffee and pacing, and passes most of the night in that hospital room until he has a signature saying Shales is healthy enough for a jail cell. Then there's organizing transport and local officers -- far more than Alex usually needs for one felon, but it's been a really long day and he's not taking any chances -- and getting Shales to the local station. Then nearly an hour of filling out required paperwork and trying not to fall asleep at the borrowed desk. (He's ridiculously thankful that he called Lang from the hospital and she agreed to chase up the paperwork in Denver. One of these days, the pure amount of paperwork in this job is going to kill him.)

He leaves them his cell number and Scofield's motel room, and then gets one of the officers to drive him back to the hotel. The rental car is already parked there, but Alex doesn't think anything of it until he pushes open the door to the shared room and sees Scofield fast asleep on the lone queen-sized bed.

"You'd better not have discharged yourself," Alex mutters under his breath as he kicks off his shoes. Scofield doesn't stir.

For a second, Alex thinks about asking for another room. He hates sharing a bed with strangers, but right now, he's so tired he could fall asleep where he stands. Walking back to reception and chasing up another key seems like far too much effort. So Alex discards his jacket and tie with a frown, kicks off his shoes, and gets into bed. He's out as soon as his head hits the pillow.

***

Pam's accused him of being fastidious to the point of compulsion, and Alex can't deny it. He likes things a certain way. He likes order and control. He likes knowing that the cutlery drawer will always have the knives on the far right; he likes knowing that every pair of dress shoes in his closet are clean and polished, that if he has to get dressed in a hurry, he can grab any suit, shirt and shoes and look professional.

He wakes up feeling anything but professional. He's gritty-eyed tired and his clothes look like he's lived in them for a week. Alex imagines taking time off, organizing a family vacation somewhere warm where he can lie on a beach and sleep in the sunshine, but it'll have to wait until Shales is back behind bars. It'll have to wait until they get Shales across three states, so right now, Alex needs to get up and get going. First priority is a shower -- hot enough to burn away the tiredness -- so he ignores Scofield snoring into the pillow and staggers to the bathroom.

Once he's brushed his teeth and shaved, once he's in a clean shirt and suit, he's ready to get this done. He opens the bathroom door to find Scofield sitting on the bed, wearing sweats and a loose t-shirt and rubbing at his eyes. "Shower," Alex says, and then adds, "By the way, I'm officially cancelling your leave."

Scofield drops his hand and looks up at Alex. The glint in his eyes is wary but his tone is only polite interest. "Are you suspending me?"

"Not yet. Catching Shales means nothing if we don't get him back to jail and since he's been on the wanted list for months, a commercial flight is out of the question."

Scofield looks down and Alex can almost hear the gears whizzing inside his skull. "Days of driving will be safer if there's a second agent."

"Given yesterday," Alex waves a hand, meaning everything that's happened in the last twenty-four hours, "it's asking a lot. But Shales belongs back on death row and the sooner we get moving, the less opportunity he has to escape us again. We'll get agents to meet us in New Mexico, halve the trip, but I want Shales out of here and I want him away from the Mexico border."

Scofield nods twice and then says, "Okay." He doesn't add 'sir' to the end of it and when he stands, for a moment, he pushes a hand against the bedside drawers, discreetly steadying himself. "If Shales does try to escape, I might not be fit enough to be much use."

"Don't worry about it." Alex doesn't say that he wants another agent's testimony if Shales tries anything; if they show up in New Mexico with Shales hosting a whole new set of bruises, he wants someone to say it was necessary force. He also doesn't say that Scofield found the evidence and risked his life, and the least Alex can do is make sure he gets mentioned in the custody reports, make sure he gets some credit.

***

It's mid-morning by the time they get to the local station. Alex commandeers the Sherriff's office and puts Lang on speaker-phone to work out the details. Scofield's new to this so Alex expects him to sit down and be quiet, to be bored by the tedious level of organizing that's necessary for this. New agents never realize that transporting fugitives isn't about just getting behind a steering wheel and hitting the gas. The route has to be organized, the timing of it needs to be estimated, and check-in calls need to be pre-arranged for each stop. If that call doesn't get made, if they call their cell phones and get no answer, the agency needs to know where they were headed, where they were last, and where the hunt for Shales has to start again.

Driving straight though, they could do it in eleven, maybe twelve hours. But Shales is entitled to bathroom breaks every four hours and they're going to need to eat, so it's best to plan the trip in three-hour stretches from one town jail cell to the next. Which sounds easy enough to plan, but it all comes down to looking at a map, working out distances and travelling times, playing with the stops until you get the right splits.

The next step is documenting it all and contacting each of the local authorities to make sure they'll be expected at a set time and there'll be a nice, cozy jail cell waiting for Shales in each place.

Alex expects Scofield to be bored and impatient about the whole thing, but once Alex explains what they're doing, Scofield grabs a map and a pad of paper, and starts approximating travelling speeds. Once they've worked out the route -- Lamesa, Amarillo, Des Moines and then Canon City -- Alex stays on the phone while Lang confirms Shales' first stay. As Alex paces and waits, he watches Scofield: dark lashes closed, long fingers squeezing the bridge of his nose, pressing against the bone like it's a sinus headache. Alex glances away when Scofield opens his eyes, but it's not fast enough.

"I'm fine," Scofield says. "Minor concussion, that's all."

Alex nods but he has a guilty flash of wondering if he should get Lang to fly someone else down, to postpone this trip until tomorrow and force Scofield to light duties. While that's the logical thing to do, the cautious, practical thing, Alex doesn't want to. He doesn't want Scofield out of his sight and he doesn't want Shales out of his grasp. He wants this whole thing done and finished, packed away as somebody else's problem; he wants to sleep at night without thinking of who Shales is going to kill next, without remembering each and every murder scene.

He wants this done and he wants it too badly to wait. So he yells out the door for a few aspirin for Scofield, and tells Scofield to start calling motels and organize a room in Amarillo for tonight.

***

The trip to Lamesa is thankfully easy. Shales is quiet in the backseat and Scofield is silent in the passenger side. (Mild concussion means occasional bouts of blurry vision and dizziness. No way Alex is putting the kid behind a steering wheel.) It's three hours of Texas countryside and after the first hour and a half of wordless driving, Scofield leans across and flicks the radio on. Alex lets him but he keeps a close eye on Shales in the mirror.

The handcuffs around Shales wrists are looped through the left door, too short to reach anything but Shales' lap. Shales tugs at them once or twice, but otherwise, he's just stares out the window.

It's not until Alex pulls into Lamesa, until Shales is behind metal bars again, that he breathes out and realizes that he's waiting. He's waiting for Shales to try something, for Shales to lash out. Even if he doesn't think he'll get free, there's nothing in Shales' file that makes Alex think he'd obediently follow back to prison. He says as much to Lang when he calls in.

She snorts and says, "Paranoia really is an asset in this job."

"It's only paranoia if they're not out to get you," Alex wisecracks back.

***

There's a scuffle getting Shales back into the car. Nothing major, just an elbow to one of the local's kidneys, but it follows the pattern Alex is expecting and in a weird way it makes him relax. He'd rather have Shales glaring at him from the backseat. It's the way things are supposed to be.

***

By the time the dreary afternoon light fades into dark gray and the trees become black silhouettes against the draining light, the tension in the back of Alex's neck is starting to ease. They're an hour from Amarillo, from hot showers and beds and TV, from Shales being watched by somebody else for the night. By lunchtime tomorrow, there'll be other agents collecting Shales at Des Moines and taking him back to Colorado Penitentiary. There will be paperwork and interviews, but Alex is already thinking about when he can take leave and that he'll have to call Pam tonight, get her to look into organizing a vacation.

Beside him, Scofield is starting to look a bit pale, tired and a little tense around the eyes, but he seems okay. Alex steals sideways glances at him, noticing the way he rubs at his eyes, the frequent blinks of tiredness and the occasional yawn he tries to smother behind his right hand. There's the clink of handcuffs from the backseat, sign of Shales getting restless and Alex checks out the mirror for a moment.

Then all hell breaks loose.

Shales moves. He doesn't shift in his seat, he lunges forward, handcuffed wrists coming up and over the passenger seat. Alex reaches sideways, gets a hand between the handcuffs and Scofield's throat, but it's a near thing. Alex can feel the back of his knuckles pressing against Scofield's windpipe, the metal links biting into his palm.

And in the midst of all the commotion, there's a calm voice in the back of Alex's brain, saying: you didn't check the handcuffs. Shales fought when he was being put in the car. He used it as a distraction and you didn't check his handcuffs.

It's such an obvious mistake.

Then Shales pulls with his entire body weight and Alex can't waste time thinking about what he should have done. While Scofield's still breathing -- good thing -- Alex has one hand trapped and the other holding on to the steering wheel as the car keeps moving at eighty miles an hour.

Alex slams on the brakes, yanks at the steering wheel and the car skids on its wheels. Alex tries to brace himself as the car twists sickeningly sideways, half-dark landscape whirling past their windows, spins once, twice, three times as Alex uses the sudden momentum to pull the handcuff chain towards the windshield. It's just enough for Scofield to slide down in his seat as the car slows, skidding in one last turn before stopping halfway across the road.

It's a mistake to check on a wounded agent and ignore the source of danger. It jeopardizes both agents and Alex knows better. Or he should. But his first reaction is to look at Scofield, who's breathing heavy and holding his throat, and Shales uses the moment to bring his arm down hard on the top of Alex's elbow, to force Alex's fingers to release the handcuff chain. Alex lets go, and Shales flicks Scofield's door unlocked -- of course, it's a damn rental car and the central locking unlocks all the doors -- and then pushes his own door open and scrambles out of the car.

Alex could call this in, he could stay with Scofield, but there's no way Shales is getting away from him. Not this time.

He pushes his door open, fumbles for his gun as he gets out, and runs after Shales. He doesn't have the breath to yell for Shales to stop, doesn't bother. Just runs, stretches each leg as far and fast as he can, panting open-mouthed until he crosses the space between them and tackles Shales to the ground.

Shales lands face-first and tries to squirm, tries to force Alex off him, but Alex anchors a knee against his kidneys and presses his gun into the back of Shale's head, into that fleshy part just above the neck and says, "Don't."

"Don't what, Agent Mahone?" Shales growls back, but he stops struggling. He lifts his head a little, trying to breath more than dirt, and says, "Don't tempt you? You know you want to, want to pull that trigger and have this finished, right?"

Alex's chest is pounding and he's breathing too hard. His hands are too tight around the gun and he thinks, yes, he could do it. He could pull that trigger. He could stop this from ever happening again.

"You know the funny thing," Shales says, and laughs a little. Alex doesn't want to know what this kind of scum finds amusing but Shales keeps talking. "The thing that'll eat you up inside is knowing that I won't get punished for any of this. I'm already on death row. You take me back, you stand up in court, you tell them about all that blood, about everything I did that made them scream, and this is just another court case. Another appeal. A few more years they'll have to wait before they strap me down and do what they were already going to do. It's kind of a win-win."

It's strange how distant Alex suddenly feels. How eerily calm he feels as he slips the safety catch off. There's part of him that knows what's going on here, that recognizes the emotional manipulation, the desperation of a man who'd rather die out of prison than spend the next decade waiting for his execution but there's also part of Alex that knows this will stop it. One little bullet.

It wouldn't be the first time he's shot someone. He killed in the Gulf, he's killed in the line of duty for the FBI. He could just hold Shales down and pull that trigger, and this would be done. No court cases, no interviews, no standing in front of juries and families, showing photos of bruised, bloody corpses and reciting how long it had taken them to die, how long they'd had to wait before they were found. Not rescued, not saved, just found.

He'd never have to talk about how many people had died horribly because he couldn't do his job. Because he couldn't find them fast enough, couldn't stop this.

And now, he thinks, he can. "Any last words, Shales?" Alex asks and Shales laughs. All Alex can hear is that low, rough laughter as he leans back, steadies his other hand around the gun and takes one last, slow breath.

"Mahone," Alex hears over his shoulder and turns to see Scofield a few steps away, staying still, very still, like this is a hostage situation, like this is something to be negotiated.

"Go back to the car," Alex says.

"Mahone," Scofield says again, voice gentle and soft, edging just a little closer. "You can't do this."

Alex keeps his hands still, keeps the metal pushed hard into Shales' skin. "Actually, I can. One shot and this is done. This doesn't happen again."

"But it will. Some other fugitive will escape, other people will get killed. It will happen. And you can't shoot them all. You can't shoot any of them without becoming just like them. You'd be someone who kills because they want to, because they think they can." Scofield takes a step closer and he doesn't ask for the gun, doesn't force it out of Alex's hands, but Alex gives it to him anyway. Because he's right. Because once this job becomes a choice, then he's responsible for each and every decision, then there's nothing to salve his conscience at night.

"We'll get him back in the car, we'll drive to Amarillo." Scofield holds onto the gun, keeps it trained on Shales. He keeps his voice soft and steady, and when he looks Alex in the eyes, he seems tired but not angry, not disappointed, not disgusted by Alex's behavior. It's a kindness Alex doesn't deserve. "After a good night's sleep, we'll work out what we do next."

***

On the way back to the car, Scofield holds up the keys to the rental -- the keys Alex had left in the ignition -- and says, "Maybe I should drive."

It's not really a question so Alex doesn't bother answering. He wants to crawl off into a corner. He wants to hide and think about this. He wants to smash something and lose his temper where no-one will see and judge him. But he doesn't have that luxury right now.

So he stares at Shales. Alex watches his every movement. And this time, when they get in the car, Alex is the one to unlock Shales' handcuffs and loop one end through the door handle. He gives them a good tug to make sure Shales can't pull the same trick twice.

***

Alex does what's necessary. Watches Shales. Completes paperwork at Amarillo. Hands over his department credit card for the two motel rooms and signs where he needs to.

It's easy until he gets to his room, until everything he needs to do is done. Then Alex runs out of steam and sits on the too-soft bed.

Alex has nothing to do but think. Think about how he nearly a shot a man in his custody. What kind of agent that makes him. What he'd do if one of his team pulled the same stunt. (Psychiatric evaluation and kicked back to a desk job. Unless it were Lang. He might consider leniency for Lang.)

He doesn't like the thought but it springs to mind: the ethical choice in this situation would be to retire. To remove his ability to do the wrong thing; to make sure that next time an escapee gets caught, he isn't under the power of some self-appointed executioner. The right decision would be to quit.

He won't do it. He can rationalize one bad day against eleven years of good work. He can convince himself that in the grand scheme of things, it wasn't that bad. No-one actually got killed. Nothing irreversible happened.

He knows, all the way down to his bones, he knows that he should quit. He should spend tonight drafting a letter of resignation, not call his wife and tell her to organize a family vacation. That's what he should do.

What he actually does is call Pam. He lies when she asks if something's wrong. ("It's been a long day," he says, "Worse than that Thanksgiving we spent at your uncle's," and he can hear the smile as Pam tells him nothing could be that bad.) He suggests getting away to a beach somewhere, and Pam doesn't ask again if he's okay. She asks about how far and how long, talks about Hawaii or Miami, maybe California, and mostly, Alex agrees. Hmmms in the right places and listens to her excitement; lets himself get lost in it until she tells him "Sleep well," and "Love you," and hangs up.

***

Alex doesn't sleep. He means to, he wants to, but every time he switches off the TV and lies down, he hears the phrase _"I wish to tender my resignation..."_ and he doesn't know how that sentence finishes.

He refuses to follow that thought to its logical end. To the part that side-steps his personal responsibility, that spins some line about becoming stale and needing a new challenge in life. He knows how that letter would go but it's not like he's got anywhere to go from here.

If he were ten years younger, he'd re-enlist. He could tell Pam he missed the army, missed the camaraderie, and it'd still be a decent paycheck. Enough that they wouldn't have to think about selling the house, wouldn't have to think about moving; Pam could keep her friends and Cameron could stay in the same playgroup.

But that's not really an option at forty, and no-one quits the FBI to become a cop. It's not like he has the most impressive CV: he's been in the job twelve years, and a decade in the army. He's too old to change careers and start at the bottom rung somewhere. He's financially comfortable. He has a nice house in the suburbs and a wife who doesn't need to work. He has a kid who'll never have to wear hand-me-downs and who'll graduate high school knowing his folks will pay for any college he wants.

So Alex has his reasons for not writing that letter. It's all about convenience and what's going to disrupt his life. They're practical reasons but they're not good reasons. They're not the kind of reasons that leave him sleeping easy at night. It makes him restless and worried (because it can't be the right choice, he knows it can't be. But how can it be right to go home to Pam and tell her that everything has to change because of one bad day?), and watching news reports to see the coverage of Shales' arrest.

Until there's a knock on his door and Alex gets up to answer it, happy for the momentary distraction. Happy until he sees Scofield standing there, pizza boxes in one hand and a six pack of beers in the other.

"You hadn't eaten," Scofield says, pushing the boxes into Alex's hands.

Alex can smell anchovies, tomatoes and cheese, hot and fresh. It's so good it makes his mouth water but he's not in the mood for visitors. So he stands his ground, keeps the doorway blocked and asks, "What makes you think that?"

"I'm a few doors up." Scofield points to his right, to the stairway down to the ground floor. "No delivery guys went past my window and you didn't go out."

"So you thought you'd bring pizza?"

"We've both got to eat," Scofield replies. He doesn't shift his weight, doesn't lean away, and he should. Alex wants him to feel uncomfortable. Alex wants him to walk away. But Scofield stays in the doorway, a pizza-box distance between them, and says, "Gonna let me in?"

Alex thinks about Scofield sitting at his desk, night after night, the only light in the open stretch of office. About the kind of determination it takes to come down here alone, with virtually no field experience, because he thought he was right.

Alex steps away from the doorway. "Fine. Come in." He puts the boxes on the table and waits for Scofield to step inside, closing the door behind him. "What is it?"

"What?"

"You're not my keeper, you're not my wife. You don't need to worry whether or not I eat," Alex says, taking a good look at Scofield's denim jeans and grey sweatshirt -- loose casual clothes Alex didn't have the foresight to pack -- and his hands tight around the beer bottles. "So I have to assume you came here to say something. So say it."

"I thought you might want to talk about it. About today."

"You thought wrong."

Scofield glares, drops the beers to the table with a thunk. "Maybe I had something to say about it."

"Like what? A preview of what you were going to report once we got back to Denver?" Alex doesn't stalk closer. Doesn't let himself fall back on the simple satisfaction of looming up into Scofield's face, of letting this sudden anger show. "Did you expect me to negotiate your report? Make it worth your while not to mention certain things?"

"I got investigated by Internal Affairs. They didn't find me guilty."

It's a verbal slap and it makes Alex stop. Makes him look at Scofield and remember the kid tied to a kitchen table, remember blood smeared on a backseat window. Remember Scofield talking him down, quiet and calm, and taking the gun out of Alex's hands.

"You could have gone back to the car," Alex says, and Scofield blinks.

Frowns for a second and then says, "Really wasn't an option."

"He would have killed you. You've got to know that if I hadn't shown up--"

"I know," Scofield says, moving away, leaning back on the table. Not meeting Alex's eyes. "I wasn't sure you'd find me, not before-- But Shales doesn't deserve it."

"You think he doesn't deserve a bullet through the head?"

"I think he doesn't deserve to win. He doesn't deserve the satisfaction of taking you down with him."

All the fight rushes out of Alex at once. One huffed breath and he doesn't have the energy for this anymore. He could argue against self-interest; he could handle self-righteous judgments. He doesn't know what to do with Scofield's compassion.

Sinking down to the mattress, Alex rests his elbows on his knees and drops his head to his hands. He doesn't know what to do with this. But he has to do something because he feels the bed dip as Scofield sits beside him.

Scofield is smart and gutsy and full of promise. He has the potential to be a hell of an asset to the agency. Alex doesn't think his conscience can bear the weight of ruining that. "You should report me." He means it, too. Scofield already has the taint of an IA investigation on his file and this wasn't his mistake.

"What good would that do?"

Alex twists his head sideways, watches Scofield. "That has to be a rhetorical question."

"You've been doing this, what, eleven years?" Scofield asks, and waits silently until Alex is forced to answer.

"Twelve."

"How many times have you subdued a prisoner like that and almost shot them? How many times have you had to pull yourself back from that?"

"This isn't a habit, Scofield. It's not like I do it for kicks."

"Exactly. It was one unusual occurrence. In statistical terms, it was an outlier. Any decent statistician would ignore it."

Shaking his head, Alex argues, "This isn't theory, this isn't figures. This is a man's life. A human life that I almost-- I had no right--"

"You didn't do it."

Scofield reaches out and lays a hand over Alex's wrist. It's funny how Alex hadn't noticed his own forearms pressing hard into his lap, his fingers fisted so tight fingernails dig into his palms and knuckles stand out white against the skin. Once he notices that, he's suddenly aware that he's tight everywhere: tight across his shoulders and the back of his neck, muscles bunched and ready for a fight.

"You don't know me. You can't just take my word for it," Alex says, but Scofield either doesn't get it or doesn't want to, because he keeps his fingers on Alex's skin and stays right there. "For all you know, there are bodies buried across the country and this is just the first time anyone's been around to see it."

Still, Scofield doesn't move. His dry palm stays on Alex's wrist as he says quietly, "You're one of the good guys."

"Not judging by today."

"You're a good agent. Shales isn't the first fugitive you've put away. Mine isn't the first life you've saved. That doesn't all get wiped out by one moment of weakness, one single moment of temptation where you considered something you didn't do. You didn't pull the trigger and that counts. That has to count."

Alex wants to say that it doesn't, but he's distracted by Scofield's thumb brushing against his forearm, by the way that Scofield hasn't moved back -- hasn't even leaned back; Scofield's sitting too close, staring too intently, breathing a little too fast for a conversation like this.

Alex is good at his job because he's good at reading people, and Scofield isn't being subtle. He licks along his bottom lip and says, "You're a good man," but the simmering heat in his eyes says a hell of a lot more.

If it's a choice of fight, flight or fuck, Alex knows which option sounds best.

Same adrenalin in his veins, same coiled tension in his muscles, but it's a different kind of rush. He can feel it low in his gut, desire growing like the heat rising from his unbuttoned collar as he slides his left hand over Scofield's. He tightens his grip, pulls Scofield's hand off his wrist and onto his leg.

Scofield freezes, breath catching in his throat. For an instant, it nearly goes bad. This scenario is the ideal basis for a sexual harassment suit. Alex is keenly aware of that. Then Scofield takes a breath and slides his hand higher. A lot higher. Until his thumb is snug against the seam of Alex's slightly too expensive for his pay-grade pants.

Scofield takes a breath, opens his mouth to say something and gets as far as "This--" before Alex yanks him into a kiss. It's closed-mouth and a little bit careful until Alex gets a hold in Scofield's hair, holds him still and close while Alex attacks his mouth, bites that full lower lip hard enough to bruise.

Scofield groans and moves his fingers higher, the heel of his hand pressing hard against Alex's cock, rough, the sharpest kind of ache. It's good but Alex wants more. Wants Scofield on his knees, that mouth stretched around his cock. Or Scofield pressed down into the bed with Alex balls-deep inside his ass.

He wants Scofield naked, begging and gasping. He wants to hear Scofield swear and groan, wants to feel Scofield's fingers dig into his skin as he says, "Fuck," and "Yes," and "Alex."

Except Scofield doesn't call him Alex. Pam calls him--

Alex pulls back. Shoves Scofield so hard the poor kid probably has whiplash. He says, "I can't," and Scofield says, "I know," and there's an embarrassed silence where Alex stares at his hands. At the gold band across his finger.

"I'm just--"

"You're married." Scofield's voice is flat but from the shuffling sounds of footsteps, he's retreated to the table at the far side of the room. "And you're one of the good guys. I know you wouldn't cheat."

"Two giant almost-mistakes in one day. That's a personal record."

"This wasn't the plan. Beer, pizza--" Scofield pauses, like there's something else he was going to say, "but this wasn't the plan."

Like he'd planned it. Like he'd thought about it. Like Scofield is some high school kid with a crush, planning make-out sessions over pizza and beer. Alex nearly says something, nearly jokes, but the words die on his tongue when he looks up and sees the mottled color over Scofield's face. It's all plain in Scofield's restless fingers against the tabletop, in Scofield's nervous, shifting eyes, and it's amazing Alex hasn't noticed before.

He's kept an eye on Scofield. In team debriefings, where everyone else takes copious notes and Scofield only jots down key words, Scofield's the one Alex watches, the one he focuses on as he tries to get these facts into people's heads. When he looks out the glass walls of his office, stares at the bullpen full of desks and tables and noise, it's Scofield's desk he finds himself watching.

He knew that Scofield was trying to impress him but he thought it was Scofield trying to impress the new boss. But maybe Scofield's been trying to catch Alex's attention for different reasons. Given tonight, Alex could wonder if his own attention has been entirely professional.

It's not something he has a lot of experience with. With Lang, there's a spark of… something. Something that might be attraction under different circumstances but it's never really come up. He's never had to talk about it. "You could do a lot better than me."

Scofield looks mortified, but he blinks past it pretty fast. "That'd be easier to believe if you hadn't saved my life this week."

"Being good at my job doesn't make me--"

"You're a good guy," Scofield says, too serious until his mouth slips into a smirk, "but you're married, so the point's moot."

***

Things fall into place after that. All the way to Des Moines, Shales is a glowering presence in the backseat, but as long as he doesn't talk, doesn't try to share the details Alex already knows far too well, it doesn't bother Alex at all. After they hand Shales over to the next pair of agents, they drive through to Denver. Scofield doesn't talk and Alex doesn't want to, but it passes fast enough.

Scofield drops him at home, so early Cameron's still at preschool. He lets himself in, lugs his bag to the kitchen, and finds Pam fussing over the oven, sliding something inside. She always cooks early, long before she needs to, and it feels like forever since Alex has been home to appreciate this. His own home. His family. The one part of his life that makes every crime scene photo bearable, makes every case worth it. Because it keeps this safe.

He has a habit of walking quietly, and it takes Pam a moment to turn and see him. She says, "Alex!" and it's half shock, half reprimand and then she takes a good look at him. "It's done? The case... it's finished?"

"Yeah." He almost tells her details, almost says Shales' name, but that's not how they work. He doesn't talk about cases at home, he doesn't bring that kind of thing into their family. The funny thing is that these days, he's on TV and he's in the papers; if she wanted to know, she wouldn't have to look far. But they don't talk about it, so he says, "It's over. A couple days of paperwork, and that's it."

Pam steps up close, slides warm hands onto his shoulders as easy as if this is something they do every day, as if he hasn't spent the last few months distanced and distracted by Shales, too focused and frustrated to be more than an outline in his own marriage. But Pam smiles, like all his sins are forgiven, and says, "So what's first? Bath or bed?"

***

Alex wakes up in his own bed. Early morning sunshine sneaks around the closed curtains and the down-filled covers crinkle and rustle as he sits up. It's all sharply familiar, from the painted cream walls to the colored bottles of perfume spread across the dressing table, but for a moment, it feels wrong. Strange and weird. He's been neck-deep in the Shales case for months now, working all hours, crashing in the guest room, chasing Shales across towns and sleeping in mediocre motels. Sometimes he wonders how Pam puts up with him.

Sometimes Alex wonders why.

Downstairs, Cameron is sitting at the kitchen table eating candy-colored cereal that's more sugar than wheat. Alex drops a kiss to the crown of his head as he walks by, and catches Pam by the waist as she cuts the crusts off a sandwich.

She smiles over her shoulder at him. "You look a lot better."

"I feel it." Alex kisses her cheek and keeps his arm loose around her, her back warm against his chest. "I was serious about the vacation, you know."

"Good. It's already paid for." Pam does that. Orders things, sorts them. Organizes the things Alex tends to forget, makes this part of his life so easy. "We leave Friday night."

***

When he gets in, the office is loud and busy. There are phones ringing everywhere -- reporters wanting quotes, other agencies wanting enough detail to finish their paperwork and file it away -- and there's the general hum of victory in the air. It's in the grins of his agents, the upbeat snatches of conversations he hears as he walks through. The team deserves to enjoy it so Alex doesn't say anything. He just catches Lang's eye and waits for her to meet him in his office.

She closes the door behind her but it only blocks out half the noise. "You know it's controlled chaos out there, right?"

Of course Lang knows him well enough to know he prefers the office quiet and productive. But the longer the Shales case dragged out, the more tense his agents became. It'll do them good to let off steam. "As long as it's controlled. Do we have the press release drafted?"

"On your desk."

It's sitting on top of the messy pile covering his desk, so Alex picks it up. Starts skimming the words and familiar official phrasing. "The higher-ups taking care of the TV time?"

"Pretty much," Lang replies, which Alex expected. When it's bad news, when it's dangerous escapees, Alex is happy enough to use the media but this sort of stuff, spinning the story to make the agency look good, he's happier to avoid. Luckily, there's always some superior who wants to be the face of good news. "You might have to do a few interviews, but so far, nothing's been organized."

Alex nods and starts tidying the pages on his desk into piles. "Tell me you're auditing the case file. We want that in order before anyone outside sees it."

"Started yesterday. There are a few t's to cross," Lang shrugs, smirking a little which probably means a few of the unsigned reports are Alex's, "but I'll chase it up. It'll be ready before it's needed."

"Good," he says, attention caught by a field report tucked under his keyboard. His eyes go straight to Scofield's name at the top. Despite all the commotion and excitement, Scofield's desk had been empty. Alex remembers noticing it when he walked in. "Where's Scofield?"

"Said he wasn't in for the rest of the week."

When Alex glances up, Lang's watching him too keenly for simple curiosity. Alex knows Scofield hasn't said anything -- can remember him pausing with a half-eaten slice of pizza in his hand, red sauce smeared brightly at the corner of his mouth and saying out of nowhere, "I won't tell anyone. There isn't anyone I'd talk to about this stuff but even if there were..." and Alex remembers wondering if Scofield meant Shales or the kiss, or both -- but Lang watches him and doesn't back down, and he's seen her interview too many accomplices not to recognize her expression.

Alex reads over the press release one more time. "Did he say anything else?"

"Said he was owed leave," Lang says, still watching him carefully.

Alex signs off the bottom of the press release and hands it back to her. "Run with it. I'm going to start sorting through this mess."

He waits until she's closed the door behind her before he picks up the report from Scofield.

It's easy to find the part he wants. He skims past the meticulous descriptions of how Scofield pieced it together and the action-movie heroics of a last minute rescue, and settles down to read how the prisoner escaped during transport. Scofield sets it out simply, stating where everyone sat in the car and a clear order of events. It's a good report: objective enough to sound reasonable, clear enough for prosecutors to use without a problem. But according to Scofield, Shales ran out of the car, Alex ran after him and Scofield followed to find Alex had "tackled the prisoner to the ground" and "waited until I arrived on the scene before holstering his weapon and escorting the prisoner back to the vehicle".

Every word of Scofield's report is technically true, but that doesn't make it honest.

***

The week passes faster than Alex expects, even if Scofield's desk remains empty. Interviews and reports, and everything's signed off before he flies out on Friday to the warm promise of Florida. It's a week full of sun and sand, and it's good for him. The agency feels worlds away. He burns his nose red building sandcastles with his boy, watches Pam's long legs as she sun bakes, salt water glistening on her skin. He silently thanks the genius who thought of a Kids Club and spends Cameron-free afternoons napping on the King-sized bed, windows left open and the sound of the surf lulling him into drowsiness. While the light curtains blow in the breeze and the sunlight drenches the edge of their bed, he makes love to his wife on crisp cotton sheets.

The three of them go out for dinner and eat more seafood than Alex can believe and let Cameron have candy after dark just because it's a vacation. He indulges Cameron's ongoing attempt to capture a seagull, and laughs with Pam as Cameron runs and runs and never gets within arms-reach of the birds.

He feels like a different man. And if he idly wonders if Scofield's back at work -- if Scofield's sitting alone in the dark, empty office under the singular blaze of his desk lamp, sucking on the end of his pen as he reads and writes down one-word notes to himself -- that's part of another life, too.

***

When he gets back to the office, there's a new face on the pin board, a new rap-sheet sitting under some felon's mug shot and Alex has to hit the ground running. Simple story, easy case of a very lucky crim being in the right place at the right time, and they're already getting roadblocks up and going. Alex yells out for Lang and Scofield, for a map and a copy of the search grid the prison guards are checking, and he gets all four pretty quick.

Lang says, "No proof this was planned, so he's going to be on foot."

"No stolen cars reported?" Alex asks, and Lang shakes her head.

"We've checked. Local police have put up road blocks, but they probably won't see him."

"On foot, he'll cut across fields." Alex taps the map, the stretch of wilderness surrounding the prison to the south and east. "Any chance of getting a helicopter out there and doing a visual sweep?"

Lang shrugs and says, "We're trying to organize it but it's going to be a few hours." They both know what that means: media attention, angry prison officials, and a higher chance that a civilian could get hurt. "We could get another search team on the ground."

Alex pushes up his glasses up as he thinks. Rubs a hand across his brow and says, "It'll look like we're doing something, but it won't achieve much. Too much ground to cover. No point sending them east while he runs south." When Alex looks over his shoulder, past Lang, Scofield's standing quietly, staring at the map. "What do you think?" Alex asks.

Scofield blinks, takes a step closer without looking away from the drawn curves and lines. "Here," he says, pointing to a nondescript area, "Send the search team here. I was looking at an older map of the area and they had a railway through here. It's not on this one."

"He's trying to avoid the roads, but an abandoned railway means flat ground and a path to follow. Get a team there now," he tells Scofield, and Scofield nods and then leaves.

Alex watches Scofield go to his desk, the smooth, focused body language as he spreads the order across the office and gets agents on phones. It's interesting. Alex can see the difference in him, the restrained confidence around other agents, the way he has no trouble getting them directed and working. For the first time, Alex realizes he wants Scofield here. He wants Scofield approaching things differently, thinking and making the connections Alex hasn't seen yet. He wants to be in the field and call the office knowing there's someone reliable and smart in charge.

He already has Lang, but it's even better having two dependable agents who'll think before jumping to conclusions.

Out of the corner of his eye, Alex notices Lang smirking at him. "Told you he was smart," she says.

"Don't you have something more productive to be doing?"

***

It's amazing how easily everything falls into place. How effortlessly yelling out for Lang becomes yelling out for Scofield and Lang, and how the spare chair in Alex's office becomes two spare chairs. It's the difference of an extra set of sharp eyes at a crime scene, or another pair of ears listening to a witness recount their version of events. It's another person checking the file, and late at night, it's another light on in the office. Late night brainstorming is easier with two of them, chasing down felons is faster when he's got a good agent in three different locations.

It's better but Alex doesn't really notice the difference until Pam asks him, "What's changed at work?"

They're unpacking the dishwasher. Pam's pulling out bowls, stacking them two by two before carrying them to the cupboard, while Alex traipses back and forth with glasses, forming a neat line of clear, clean glasses on the shelf.

"What makes you think something's changed?"

"You don't talk about it anymore. I mean, not the job itself, but you used to talk about the people you worked with. You haven't mentioned it in weeks."

Alex pauses for a moment, knowing she's right. "Is that a bad thing?"

"No," Pam says and laughs. "You seem happier. And you're home by six-thirty most nights. It's good, that's all."

Alex smiles, and changes the subject.

***

In the lull between manhunts, when the office is subdued and most of Alex's team fill in their time checking baseball scores and making personal calls, Alex watches Scofield. Sitting at his desk in the far corner, Scofield keeps his head down. He's checking old files, reading old case notes and details of what went to trial and what didn't. Even when he doesn't need to be, Scofield's productive, always searching for new information to absorb.

When Alex thinks about Shales -- now back behind bars, where the monster belongs -- it's frightening to think how close Scofield came to being another casualty. It wouldn't have needed much. Alex could have slept for a few more hours. Maybe Scofield's rental car didn't have GPS. Maybe the rental company wouldn't have been convinced by the story of an FBI agent, maybe they asked for confirmation in writing. They all add to the same conclusion: Alex being too late.

It's all too easy to imagine Scofield pale and bloody on that table, another tinged blue corpse left for Alex to witness. It's not a reassuring thought, but it's not the first time it's come to mind.

The other thing Alex finds himself thinking, when he's unoccupied and waiting for the next escape to happen, is how differently other things could have gone. Sometimes he thinks of the gun in his hand, the soft mass of Shales beneath him, the moment when he could have pulled that trigger. He knows he would have done it. Without Scofield there, in that precise moment, Alex would have shot first and worried about the consequences after.

More often, he thinks about that motel room. The curve of Scofield's head in his palm and Scofield's mouth hot and wet against his. If not for Pam, if not for Cameron... If not for a million things he loves down to his bones, more would have happened.

In times like this, when he's standing in his office, watching Scofield's fingers flick through pages, Scofield's mouth caught in a frown of concentration, Alex can imagine it all. The slow slide of skin on skin, the sharp focus Scofield brings to everything he does, the way Alex loves to lose himself in touch and taste and sensation. Maybe it's the challenge of knowing that he'd get under Scofield's defenses to see him unguarded and overwhelmed. Maybe it's the appeal of the one that got away. But whatever it is, Alex thinks about it.

Only in the privacy of his own office. Only at work. (Never at home. Never around Pam. Never like that.)

If he were a different man... Or if he were the same man and everything else were different, it wouldn't be something trapped in his imagination.

***

It's a Friday night and most of the office comes out for drinks. The excuse is that it's been a long week; it has. Not hard, but tedious. The case against Shales has been at court and after searching for Shales for months, after multiple crime scenes witnessed by multiple agents, most of Alex's team has either had to testify or prepare documents for court. Other than that, it's been quiet -- a lot of hurry up and wait -- but there was a collective sigh of relief when the jury came back with a guilty verdict.

So now they're out celebrating and letting off steam. It's a local bar, a block from the office, hidden in the basement of an alley with a rough edge that makes Alex feel comfortable to sprawl back in a booth and order beer by the jug. Around the table, Lang, McNeill and Galway are talking about their first cars, of all things, but Alex is only half listening, swallowing his beer, nodding at the appropriate time. Some of the other guys are playing pool, so most of Alex's attention is on Scofield as he bends over the table, carefully lines up a shot and sinks a ball into the far pocket.

It's his third game, and he's won the first two by a fair margin. It's not that Alex is a particular fan of the game, but he's drinking and mellow, and he can't deny that Scofield puts on a show worth watching.

Scofield walks around the table, looking at the angles. He crouches down on the floor, looking at the balls from table-height, pulling his white shirt so tight across his shoulders Alex can see the curve of deltoids and the slight valley of spine. Then Scofield leans right across the table, up on the balls of his feet, pants stretched tight across his thighs, and makes an impossible shot, using rebound to pocket his last ball. Ignoring the hoots and groans of the rest of the players, he straightens up, stalks around the table again and catches Alex's eye.

Alex gives him a smile, a nod, a congratulations on the upcoming victory, and Scofield gives him a tight smirk in return. Then he downs the black ball in one smooth motion.

Alex looks down at his glass -- because he's nowhere near drunk enough to think staring is a good idea -- and then over at the bar. The game goes to a commercial break and then a news update. Alex can't hear it over the chatter, but he reads the words scrolling across the bottom of the screen. "Shit," he says under his breath and Lang gives him a look. He nods at the screen. "The VP's brother just got shot. Shooter's on the run."

She frowns and says, "And it's on the news? You'd think they'd call--"

That's when his phone goes off.

***

He herds everyone back to the office. He ignores the mumbled complaints because they know as well as he does that when something this big goes down, they're going to want every available agent, regardless of jurisdiction. A few of them he sends straight home to sleep off the alcohol but most of them end up back at their desks, studying files notes and chasing up authorities in Chicago to get more information.

Footage of the murder is found and the shooter gets identified as Lincoln Burrows. He's a petty criminal, in and out of prisons since he was a kid, but all minor, stupid offences up until now. "This isn't a professional," he says, standing at the front of the meeting room, watching his team scribble down notes, "this is a guy who's suddenly found himself in the major league. Probably a carjacking or a robbery gone wrong, but that means he hasn't planned for this. He doesn't have an escape route so he's probably left Chicago without a destination. He might be headed south to Mexico, trying to get over the border, but he's just as likely to have gone anywhere. He's frightened, he's desperate. He's not thinking clearly. You guys know what to do."

Most of the guys file out, but Scofield sits there, staring at his blank page, face as white as the paper. "You okay?"

Scofield raises his head. He looks like he's going to throw up. "I don't feel so great. I think I need to sleep it off."

Alex hadn't seen Scofield drink that much, but he'd been trying not to spend the entire night staring at Scofield's ass. That doesn't make him a reliable witness. "Then go home. Come in when you're feeling better."

***

Lang comes into the office at six-thirty, carrying two large-enough-for-an-elephant cups of Starbucks coffee. She takes one look at Alex and sets a cup down on his desk. "That was going to be my personal supply for the day, but you look like you need it more," she says. "Were you here all night?"

Alex nods and drinks his coffee gratefully. "We got a copy of the footage."

Over the rim of a cardboard cup, Lang raises one perfectly shaped eyebrow. "And?"

"And nothing," Alex says. There's something about the footage that bothers him. It's the perfect angle to see both Burrows' face and the gun barrel, clear enough to clear enough to erase all doubt. Maybe the parking garage spent good money on security, maybe Steadman was parked in the ideal location for the cameras. But it all adds up to the perfect evidence and Alex isn't used to having a case that's so easily proved. It doesn't sit well with him, but there's no point saying that to Lang. She'll only remind him that on a big, political case like this, the experts will have checked everything long before it reaches a field office. She'd be right, too. "There've been reports of the guy seen at a Greyhound bus station, but they haven't tracked it further than that. Only thing we know for certain is that he's left Illinois."

"Was that worth staying up all night?"

Alex shrugs. "We've got some background information, too. I'll get Scofield to look at it. He's good at the details."

"He's not coming in." When Alex frowns around a mouthful of coffee, Lang waves a hand and says, "Called me this morning. Said he had a stomach flu and had camped out in his bathroom overnight. Asked me to pass on the message 'cause he couldn't find your number."

He has the number to Alex's cell, but after a night on the tiles, Alex guesses even Scofield's entitled to a little stupidity. "Pity."

"If I have to do my paperwork," Lang says, "I'm sure you'll survive reading your files."

***

The files, the official ones at least, are surprisingly light on actual background. There are details of Burrows time in Juvie and plenty of attention paid to each and every charge on his record, but when it comes to family structure, background, motivation -- all the profiling details that cases like this usually have in spades -- it's simply not there.

Alex puts it down to agency politics. One branch wanting help, but not necessarily wanting to share all of their resources. Someone assuming it's unimportant and therefore refusing to pass it on. It wouldn't be the first time, and he's sure it won't be the last. He loves working for the FBI, but it's still a government department; the internal vying for power and prestige still happens behind the scenes.

Over the last twelve years, he's gained a perfect record: every fugitive found, every fugitive returned to jail or, when unavoidable, returned in a body bag. He hasn't done it by relying on the information recorded on prison files. Those files are always based on interviews with the prisoner and the original arrest record. Relying on those details is fundamentally relying on a criminal to tell the complete and utter truth. It's worth reading to see how the prisoner views himself, to notice how he tells his own story, but when it comes to tracking them down, the truth is more useful.

So he calls in a few favors. Off-the-record, because this thing is big enough that it might blow up in people's faces, and he wouldn't ask a favor that would result in professional reprimands. Across a few states, because computerized records should be easily and accurately accessed from anywhere, but system errors happen. Sometimes things don't show up on a search, even though they should.

He gets confirmation of enrolment details from schools in Chicago. Public schools from five to fifteen, and then Burrows drops out. No birth certificate, though, and that makes Alex wonder.

He makes a few more calls, and they find adoption paperwork in Ohio. No record of it in Illinois and the system records are partially missing, saying Burrows was adopted by a couple, but only stating one name. The original paperwork has been archived off-site, but Alex gets his hands on a faxed copy of the computer read-out.

It's a hunch, to look up Aldo Burrows and search for a wedding license, but it pays off. There's a certificate from 1975, but when the copy comes through the fax machine, Alex finds himself staring at the name. Christina Rose Scofield.

Scofield's probably not the rarest name in the states, but it's an uncomfortable coincidence. And when Alex double-checks Scofield's file, remembering that he transferred from Chicago, that he went to school there...

That's too close for coincidence. So he does a quick search, checks Scofield's birth certificate. Sees something he really doesn't want to be seeing. Mother: Christina Rose Scofield. Father: unknown.

Alex walks over to the glass wall of his office, looks out at the agents on the phone, the empty desk in the corner. He could turn this information in, report Scofield and get him removed from active duty until Burrows is arrested. He could shred the evidence, pretend he'd never seen it, and let Scofield deal with this by himself.

But he remembers the hot dusty breeze on his face, the trigger under his finger and Scofield talking him down. That decides it for him.

Alex takes one last look at Scofield's file. Then he gathers up the pages that connect Scofield to Burrows and folds them into his jacket pocket. On his way out, he tells Lang that if anyone needs him, he's on his cell.

***

What Alex doesn't count on is Scofield pulling the door open, a towel around his hips and dripping water. It's instinct to avert his eyes, to look down and see water darkening the carpet around Scofield's feet, but Alex gets control of that instinct pretty fast. He meets Scofield's eyes and says, "Can I come in?"

Scofield steps back. "Thought that was too quick for the pizza," he says. In his peripheral vision, Alex notices the hand holding the towel in place also has a few crumpled green bills poking out. Scofield shrugs, tugging the towel higher, and says, "Give me a minute to throw something on."

Alex nods and uses the time to get his bearings. Scofield's place is clean and empty, minimalist lines and low, sharp-edged furniture. Everything is a neutral shade, light enough to give a deceiving sense of space, dark enough to avoid feeling completely sterile. The couch is an almost-natural brown, with off-white cushions neatly arranged at each end, and the whole room makes Alex think of a décor magazine. It's a picture waiting to be taken: a perfect example of what every young, successful professional should have in their home. It's too… precise to feel real.

But he knows Scofield likes details, likes exact measures and attention to every factor. Where Pam will read _Better Homes and Gardens_ and decide she likes those curtain -- one particular thing that's caught her eye -- Scofield's clearly seen something he liked, and replicated every aspect. It's impersonal and it feels like trying too hard, but that suddenly makes sense. If you lie on your application to the FBI, you put effort into appearing to be what you should be; if Scofield's putting that effort in at work, trying that hard in his personal life probably makes sense to him.

Alex sits on the couch and takes a childish pleasure in throwing one of the cushions to the empty chair.

Scofield comes out, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, socks and sneakers on his feet. He glances briefly at the chair, straightening the cushion on it as he walks by and perches on the other end of the couch.

Before he can speak, Alex asks, "What do you know about Burrows?"

"Only had a brief look at the file. Most of the information would have come though after I went home sick." Scofield shrugs, like this doesn't bother him at all. "Something bothering you, Mahone?"

Of course Alex gets it. Confessing when no-one even suspects, Scofield wouldn't see the point in it. He needs to spell out how much he knows to get information out of Scofield. (And that's why he's here, he tells himself. Because family and friends always know the information first. Because he needs that information to track down Burrows. Because this is doing his job, not because he's worried for Scofield. Not because he feels bad for the kid.) "You lied on your application to the agency. Said your brother was dead."

Scofield freezes for a moment, then his eyes widen, stunned like a deer caught in high beams. He swallows and leans back on the couch, back straight, trying to look confident. "How did you put it together?"

"Is that important?"

"I've been lying about that for as long as I've been in the agency, and nobody else noticed. The first year, I figured someone hadn't done their job right. But I knew that if I'd told them the truth, they wouldn't have let me in and if they kicked me out, they'd still paid for a year of college."

"Section 1001," Alex says, almost out of habit. It's an old threat, but it's a useful one. "Up to five years in prison for lying to a fed."

Scofield shrugs. "I found that out after Quantico and by then, it was done. I couldn't claim it was accidental. But it never came up. Internal Affairs investigated me, and it still didn't come up."

"You were lucky. His paperwork doesn't mention your mother, your paperwork doesn't mention your father. IA wouldn't have bothered checking marriage certificates." What Alex doesn't say is that they should have. They should have looked for a death certificate for Lincoln, for proof that Scofield's brother ever existed. Maybe Scofield's been lucky and every promotion and transfer hasn't been vetted the way it should, but it's strange that even IA didn't pick up on it.

"I never thought that would be lucky," Scofield says, leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the spotless coffee table as he talks. "Dad skipped town while Mom was pregnant with me. She was so hurt by it that she refused to put his name on my birth certificate. At school, it was easier to say we just had different dads." Then Scofield frowns and says, "But surely someone noticed if a computer glitch dropped the mother's name off a birth certificate?"

"Adoption paperwork wouldn't flag as long as it one name," Alex says and Scofield's head turns sharply.

"Linc's not adopted."

"According to the records in Ohio--"

"It's a mistake," Scofield says loudly, with the edge of hysterical panic almost controlled. "He's not adopted."

And then, Scofield makes the mistake everyone makes. It's small, it's subtle, it's only a quick flicker of his eyes to the bedroom door, but Alex sees it. Worse than that, Alex understands it. He's seen it too often not to.

"Crap," Alex says with feeling. "He's hiding here? In your apartment?"

Scofield doesn't make any denials. "He's my brother," he says, like that's an excuse.

"What kind of idiot goes running to a fed when he's being hunted by every cop around? What kind of moron ruins someone else's life just because they get into trouble?"

"Once the media starts digging up the truth, I'm not going to have a career left anyway. And he's my brother."

"That's not a license for him to--"

"He called," Scofield says over him, voice getting louder, "when we were walking into the bar. And I hung up. Next thing, it's all over the TV and he's calling me from the edge of town, saying he doesn't know what to do and he didn't do it, and what am I supposed to do?"

"You're supposed to tell me," Alex yells back, just as loud. "You're supposed to tell me, so I can go and arrest him. You're not supposed to throw away everything to become an accessory after the fact! You're not supposed to harbor a wanted fugitive."

"He didn't do it."

"There is some really compelling evidence saying otherwise," Alex snarls back. "They've got this case wrapped up with a neat little bow and once they get him into a court, it's going to take five minutes to hand over a death sentence."

Scofield stands up. He keeps his arms crossed tightly over his chest and takes a deep breath. He walks over to the open window, and looks up at the sky. "Is that supposed to convince me to hand him over?" he asks softly.

Alex is too tired for this crap. He's too tired and too old and too cynical, and if he thinks about this as a person, instead of an agent, he's not sure what he believes. "No. It's supposed to convince you that you are royally fucked. Thanks to your brother, there is no way this is getting salvaged."

"Then don't tell anyone. Give us one more day."

Alex closes his eyes, rubs a hand across the back of his eyelids. There's part of him that thinks, of course. Of course this is happening. Two days ago, Alex's life was almost perfect: his life at home was happy, his job was fulfilling and if he sometimes found himself watching Scofield and thinking about what-ifs, it was an enjoyable distraction. Now, it's going to get unpleasant: work will be busier, Internal Affairs will start going over his department with a microscope and Scofield's desk will be sitting empty.

And he doesn't even want to think about Scofield in prison. Nothing unites prisoners like ex-law enforcement and Scofield, with his soft cheeks and too-pretty lips, he'll be a walking target for the worst kind of treatment.

There's no way this can end well. "It's just delaying the inevitable," he says, collapsing back to the couch. "But if you want to spend his last day of freedom together, I can give you that."

"Twenty-four hours?"

There's something so charmingly precise about that question that Alex smiles. Scofield and his attention to detail. Scofield… and his ability to plan. "What will you do?"

Scofield shakes his head. "You have to go now, Mahone."

"What are you planning?" Alex says, and Scofield turns away, watches the street and keeps his face out of sight. "If you run and get caught..." The sentence is left hanging. Scofield knows, he must know, that if they run on a case this big, if authorities are tracking down a thug and his federally-trained brother, they might shoot first and ask questions later.

"If you know, it'll be harder for you to lie to Internal Affairs about it."

A good agent would walk away. A good agent would pull out his gun and arrest Scofield and Burrows right now. When it comes to being a good agent, Alex figures that ship has well and truly sailed. So he says, "Tell me the plan."

Helping Scofield might not be the right thing to do, but out of a range of crappy options, it's the best choice he can make.

***

In essence, Scofield's plan is simple: drive to Nevada, pick up fake passports from an old friend of Linc's, drive down to Mexico and then use buses to go further south to Panama. He has the routes planned out -- a variety of smaller roads, avoiding the large freeways as much as he can -- and talks about building a fake divider for the trunk, so Linc can be completely hidden if they get pulled over. "It won't be the most comfortable way for Linc to travel, but it's the safest I can think of."

"That's a lot of driving," Alex says, and stops when there's a knock on the door. They're interrupted by a delivery guy carrying five boxes of pizza. Alex waits until Scofield's paid and closed the front door, then raises an eyebrow at the stack of cardboard. "Enough pizza?"

"Fridge, microwave, pizza. For a single guy, that's gourmet cooking," Scofield replies with a hint of amusement. "And if we can't get plywood, the cardboard might come in handy."

Helping himself to a slice, Alex takes a bite and thinks as he chews. He swallows and asks, "What are you going to do for money? When you get there?"

"That's the easy part. I sold my condo when I transferred here but haven't seen anything I liked enough to buy, so it's all sitting in managed funds. This morning, I visited a legal firm that specializes in off-shore banking and explained that I had funds I needed to move quickly. A few signatures in the right place, a retainer fee, and they're going to set up an account in Panama. They're calling me back later today to confirm they can transfer the funds. Then they'll call me again when it's done."

"You can't take your cell with you," Alex says and Scofield digs a small, black cell out of his pocket.

"Brand new phone. Prepaid."

They eat in silence for a while. With his second slice in hand, Scofield wanders over to the bedroom door, pushes it open a fraction. He peers into the room, and then closes the door quietly. "Still sleeping," he says, by way of explanation.

Alex nearly yawns in sympathy. Burrows wasn't the only one up all night. "It's still too much driving. The longer it takes, the more likely something will go wrong."

Scofield shrugs. "Linc needs ID to get across the border."

"And if you could get Burrows to Mexico without it?" Alex asks, and Scofield doesn't react, keeps his face frozen as he thinks.

"It would be better to live under assumed names and have passports to back that up, but it wouldn't be necessary. Extradition from Panama is rarely successful." Scofield runs his hands through his short hair, and lets out a huff of frustration. "If I had more time to plan this, I could do it right. I could get Linc out of here safely. But I don't have the time and I don't have the resources. If this were Chicago, I could get the IDs locally, instead of having to drive so far out of our way. But to get them done fast and discreet in Denver, I don't even know where to start looking."

Alex must be tired. Otherwise, he'd have thought of this long ago. "I do. Not Denver, though. Durango. Busted a guy for forgery, let it ride in return for getting information on an escapee. Promised to give it up, but I'd be amazed if he had."

Scofield starts pulling out maps, running his finger along the roads they'd need to take. "That would work. Save us at least a day."

"And there's an old airstrip less than an hour from there."

"That'd be great," Scofield says, "except I don't know how to fly and I'm not about to steal a plane."

"But I know a guy who owes me favor. And he has his own plane."

***

Using Scofield's new cell, Alex makes the calls. He tells himself it's just like interrogating a witness: exaggerating a truth or two, implying a few threats, making it clear that this whole thing will just be an unpleasant memory as long as they say the words he needs to hear. He doesn't need to push much to get Chris Marino to agree to the passports, but Marino was always pretty smart for a crim. He never needed any help seeing which side his bread was buttered.

Organizing the plane takes a little more work. It takes a lot more intimidation to get past the claims that he's already served his time and "This is entrapment, that's what this is!" and "I'm not even in Colorado." So Alex is stuck pacing across Scofield's cream-tinted tiles, saying things like "You fly a plane. It's possible for you to cross state lines," and "This isn't entrapment, this is a favor. A favor you owe me," and "Don't make me regret not sending you and the missus to prison. I'm sure if I look through my notes hard enough, I'll find some interesting new information about her involvement."

"Look, I'm doing a job right now," Hines says, with the edge of a last-hope whine. "It's not like I can leave paying customers stranded and drop everything."

Alex takes a quiet breath and forces his voice to a reasonable, understanding tone. "I'm not saying drop everything, Joe. I'm saying, I need a favor. I need a flight from Colorado tonight. Whatever time suits you."

Alex plants his soles firmly against the tiles and waits. He turns to the windows, pretending to look through the blinds, mostly so he can ignore the attentive way Scofield's watching his every move. Scofield's watching him like he wants to ask a question, or maybe like he already knows the answer.

He hears a sigh down the line. Then Hines says, "I could make it there by eleven. But after this, that's it, right? We're even?"

"We're even. You never hear from me again," Alex agrees and then gives him the co-ordinates for the old airstrip. At that time of night, it should be abandoned.

***

The office is still busy when Alex gets back. He yells at Lang for an update and Lang, good agent that she is, waits until his office door is closed before she asks, "Where've you been? We've had calls from Washington about this and I've had to say you were at lunch."

"I was," Alex says, picking post-it notes marked 'Please call' and 'URGENT!' off his computer screen. "Stopped by Scofield's to see if he'd be any help."

"And?"

"Judging by the way he looked and the sound of his voice, he might have the plague. I'd be amazed if we see him this week." It's amazing how easily the lie rolls off his tongue. Amazing that lying to Lang makes his conscience twinge, but that's it.

"I swear, you never used to be this lazy about reading through files yourself."

"I'm an experienced agent. I deserve underlings to do the boring stuff for me," Alex says dryly. "So where are we with Burrows?"

"Nowhere. Eyewitness reports of him filling up gas outside Chicago, but that car was found abandoned south of the Illinois border. And that was last night. No sightings since the Greyhound terminal."

"So he's not in Illinois and he's probably not in Alaska or Hawaii, so we're down to forty-seven states." It's easy to say the words. Alex has done this dance so many times he knows each step off by heart. "You know the drill, Lang. Watch the phones, wait for him to slip up. He'll go for food, he'll ask for help. Someone will see him, and then we'll have him."

Lang nods, and heads back out to the bullpen. Alex looks at the clock, returns the calls and then waits. He reads through Burrows' background, scribbles down notes -- avoiding and ignoring anything that might draw attention to his childhood or his parents, to his link to Scofield -- but the next hour and a half drags. He drinks coffee, talks to his agents, keeps an eye on who's keeping in touch with which agency, what everyone's working on. In other words, Alex makes sure he's seen to be doing his job. He's seen to be thinking over information, making notes, staring at maps. All the things he usually does for an escapee.

And then they get the call. It's an anonymous tip called in from New York, traced back to a public phone box, but the woman sounds worried, like maybe she's pointing the finger at the wrong guy, and a little scared, like she just realized she was standing in line at the convenience store while a convicted murderer bought hot dogs, a newspaper and a baseball cap. Her description isn't perfect -- too tall, too broad across the shoulders -- but she claims it's Burrows. Ten minutes ago in Brooklyn is the best lead they've had so far so he pulls Lang aside.

"Take five agents and get on a plane to New York. I know it's anonymous," Alex says, and Lang frowns. They both know anonymous tips are more likely to be wrong than right. "But this is the first hint we've had and the guy's had enough time to get over there. It could be him."

"Do you really think we need six agents on the scene?"

"If it is him, we need to be seen to be devoting manpower to this. If it isn't, we need to show we're taking all tips seriously." Alex pauses, thinking. He's thinking that the more agents over in NYC, the less here in Denver to put two and two together. He's remembering Scofield quietly suggesting an anonymous tip, saying _"We should throw them off the scent. Linc has an ex in New York. I could get in contact, ask her to call in a tip. Tell her I need to buy time to convince Linc to hand himself in before some trigger happy cop finds him."_ Alex rubs a hand over his jaw, and hopes it looks like he's thinking about the case. "Before Burrows worked for Steadman, he worked on the wharves. New York's a big shipping town. Maybe he has a friend on one of those boats who owes him a favor."

"Sneak out of the country in a shipping crate?" Lang asks, but it's not a question. Alex knows she's thinking aloud, working it through. "Gets let on, and maybe the captain doesn't even know. We should radio an alert, make sure anything in dock is checked before it leaves."

"Good idea. Get one of the guys staying here to do it."

Lang nods. "What about you?"

"I haven't been home since Friday morning, and the mother-in-law from hell is celebrating her bicentenary of reigning evil tomorrow. If I'm not home tonight and there tomorrow, my life will not be worth living."

Raising one eyebrow, Lang says, "If I were married to you, you wouldn't talk about my mom like that."

"If I were married to you, my mother-in-law wouldn't arrive in clouds of ashes and sulfur." Alex grins, but Lang frowns disapprovingly at him. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm not stupid enough to say that to Pam. And I don't say it to the old bat because she'd strike me down with Spanish curses."

"Sure you don't want to join us on a manhunt for a wanted killer?"

"Fun as it sounds, I promised I'd be home tonight," Alex says, ignoring that twinge of guilt between his shoulder blades. "You know what you're doing."

***

He parks under Scofield's building, five minutes earlier than he needs to, and calls Pam. He tells her he's working late, that he can't get out of it, and she says, "You promised, Alex. You promised you'd be home tonight."

"I will be," he says. "Just later than expected."

In the rearview mirror, Alex watches the unmoving shadows behind him as Pam asks, "How much later? Because if you drag yourself in at 6am and then say you can't make it to Ma's birthday party, that doesn't count as keeping your word."

"I'll be home by midnight. Around then. I'll crash in the guest room, set my alarm, we'll make it to your mother's birthday. I said I'd go."

"You also said you'd go to my sister's, and instead I had to make excuses for you. If this is going to be another family event where I spend the entire time saying, 'Yes, I'm married but my husband's always working. Yes, always. He's a government employee and he's working on a Sunday,' I want to know now, Alex. I don't want to find out tomorrow morning. I want to call Ma right now and tell her not to cook for someone who never shows up."

"I'd said I'd be there, and I will be there," Alex growls back. He has to take a deep breath, force himself to back away from the fight that's starting to build. It's not Pam's fault, not really. Family means a lot to her, he loves her for it, and this is a sore subject between them. There are a lot of things he's missed. He's missed big things because there were more important things happening at work, times when he literally saved someone's life by showing up to work that day. He's missed small things because work gave him a handy excuse, and seeing his niece's first grade play -- where she was a tree and therefore had no lines -- is not something he considers particularly important. "I know she's turning seventy. I know all of the family will be there. I promised I would be there, Pam, and I will. But things have come up and I will be home late tonight. Okay?"

There's a pause, and then Pam says, "Okay. In case you don't get a chance to eat, I'll leave something in the fridge."

"Thank you." In the rearview mirror, the stairwell door pushes open and Scofield steps out. Alex pops the trunk open, and adds, "I'll see you tomorrow," before hanging up on Pam. He stays in the car, keeps a watch on the legs passing by at street level to make sure no-one pauses, no one looks inside to see the 6'2" hulking outline of Lincoln Burrows step carefully out of the stairwell and then climb into the trunk of Alex's car.

The car dips as Burrows gets in, but Alex stays inside the car. He feels like the getaway driver at a bank job; for all intents and purposes, he guesses he is.

Scofield fusses about, piling black, spray painted cardboard into the trunk, and then lifting in three bags and a black suitcase. For packing up an entire life here, it's not a lot to take with him. Alex can't help thinking of his own life, stacked into the cupboards of his house, hidden under the stairs and hoarded in the basement. It's in the photos hanging on his walls and the knick-knacks Pam's collected over the years. It would be a lot to leave behind.

He doesn't say that to Scofield, though. When Scofield gets into the passenger seat, he only says, "Ready to go?"

Scofield nods.

***

On the way to Durango, Alex doesn't make conversation. There are things he almost wants to ask. What's Scofield going to do down there? Will he stay in Panama? Is it worth it, really? If he could cover his tracks, would he leave Burrows there and return to the US? How can he be so sure Burrows is innocent? What if Burrows is guilty, would that make a difference?

But there aren't any answers he'd want. There aren't any answers that would make Alex feel better.

So he stays quiet. Tries to ignore Scofield sharp and quiet in the passenger seat and drive the familiar roads, like this is just another trip to visit Pam's sister. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to think about. No reason for that tension sitting an inch behind his ribcage; no need to grip the steering wheel too tight or take the corners too carefully.

He turns the radio up and hums along to classic rock, pretends he's only thinking about tunes and half-remembered lyrics.

It doesn't work, but it gets him through the trip without finding out more than he wants to know about Scofield. It gets him right up to the front of Marino's wooden bungalow.

***

Marino doesn't waste time. He opens the gates for Alex to park round the back and lets them all in the back door. He takes one look at Scofield and says, "There's a kit laid out in the bathroom. Cut your hair short, military short, while I start on him." Then he sits down at the kitchen table with Burrows, an open laptop and a digital camera and starts recording his stats.

There's nothing for Alex to do except stand around and watch, which feels pretty stupid, so he lets himself out the back door. The suburban garden is ordinary: lawn, fences, trees closing in the perimeter. It's too early to be truly dark but the light's fading fast enough, sky caught between indigo and dusty grey.

He wants to call Pam. Wants to say goodnight to his boy, promise to read him a bedtime story tomorrow. He wants to know that far away, his home and family are safe, protected from the things he can't stop himself wanting.

But Alex has already switched his cell off, in case anyone gets some kind of premonition and tries to track him with it. It's not likely, not while Scofield's out of the office -- those apparently intuitive leaps come from Scofield more often than not -- but it's the smart thing to do. He still thinks about calling Pam. It wouldn't really serve a purpose, other than make him feel better.

But it wouldn't be smart. So he doesn't do it.

Instead, he sits down on the old porch-swing and watches the stars come out.

***

For all the promise of the cheery red and green striped cushions, the porch-swing isn't all that comfortable. Alex ends up slouched down low in the seat, one foot wedged high against the wooden railing. It only takes a little push to keep the chair moving but with every rock back and forth, the metal makes a soft creaking noise. There's a dog, a few fences over, that barks when traffic passes. There's an occasional shout and high-pitched giggle of kids playing in someone's yard. There are televisions playing somewhere and the distant thud of neighbors closing a door and from high above, the calls of birds in the trees.

It's the sounds of suburbia. Other people's doors and conversations, played over the white noise of distant traffic. If Alex closes his eyes or stares up at the constellations he knows so well, he could be in his own garden.

The back door opens, and from a square of bright light, Scofield steps out. He lets the door shut behind him but it's enough time for Alex to see the change a hair-cut makes. The soft waves of dark hair are gone, there's no curl sneaking past the back of Scofield's collar. Now it's cut brutally short. Scofield's face is still smooth, and his lips still look soft and full, but he doesn't look like a college kid in his first suit. His eyes are too hard to be anything but a grown man.

Alex doesn't know why that bothers him, but it does.

Scofield says, "He says it'll take an hour to print. Linc's watching TV," and then stands there, hands deceptively loose by his sides.

"Plane won't be there until eleven," Alex says, but Scofield knows that. It doesn't need to be said.

Scofield shrugs, looks at the empty half of the porch-swing. "Mind if I sit?"

"Go ahead."

The chair moves a little as Scofield sits down, closer than he needs to be. It's not the size of the chair forcing the touch of legs and shoulders, but Alex pretends he doesn't notice the press of Scofield's body. Pretends that's the sort of detail he's not even aware of.

"Thanks. For all of this. I appreciate it." Scofield's hands are flat on his lap. He watches them as he talks.

Alex wants to say, it's no big deal. He wants to say, of course. "Don't mention it."

For the time it takes for a car to pull into a nearby driveway, for the engine to be switched off and the car door to slam shut, Scofield is quiet. Then he says, "You didn't have to do all this."

"Yeah, well, you might not do too well in prison." As a joke, it falls flat.

"You didn't have to drive us all the way out here."

"Less suspicious than leaving your car by an airstrip."

"We could have stolen a car. Linc knows how to do that." There's just enough ambient light for Alex to make out the twist of Scofield's mouth as he says that. Scofield swallows and his face becomes humorless again. "Why are you helping?"

There are a lot of answers to that question. Some of them involve the difference between what's right and what's just; some of them involve the occasional nightmares Alex has about Scofield strapped down to that table, Shales' knife working slowly through the unscarred skin. A lot of them involve the endearing little frown Scofield gets when he's working on a problem and the way Alex's hands remember the slide of Scofield's hair between his fingers. "You need to hear the words?"

"Turns out," Scofield says carefully, like he's judging every word before it leaves his mouth, "I owe Linc more than I realized. Even if I didn't, turning my back on him isn't an option. But there's a lot that I'm leaving behind tonight. There's not much of that I'll miss but... I want to hear the words."

Scofield takes a breath, lets it out slow. Alex doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't say anything.

"Coming down here with us, it's personal risk, Alex. Risks you didn't have to take. You could have given me the numbers to call or made the calls and told me where to show up. But you came, and that has to mean something more than just not wanting me behind bars."

"It doesn't," Alex says, and mostly it's true. In the important ways, it's true, but there's a quick pinch of pain on Scofield's face and that wasn't what he intended. So he tries to explain. "When I married Pam, I made promises and those don't disappear just because I met someone else. If your brother hadn't got caught up in this, if I'd seen you day in, day out for the next ten years, it wouldn't change any of this. Nothing would happen."

Alex looks away. He'd rather stare at the stars than watch Scofield's face. It's easier to recite constellation names and trace known shapes in the sky, than watch Scofield try -- and fail -- to hide his reactions.

"I don't buy it," Scofield says. "Nothing might have happened, sure, but it still means something. It has to mean--"

Scofield stops. It probably isn't a smart idea to wrap an arm around Scofield's shoulders, but Alex does it anyway. Scofield's giving up everything for his family. In his shoes, Alex would do the same. In a heartbeat. Doesn't mean it's easy to do.

"It never would have been more than this. It never would have been--" But that's not what Alex wants to say. He doesn't want to guess at the things Scofield would have wanted, had everything been different. He's trying to tell the truth. "It would have always been this. Too much," Alex waves his free hand, meaning 'too possessive' and 'too involved' and all the other reasons he pays more attention to Scofield than he really, really should, "to be a friendship and not enough to be anything more. This isn't worth regretting."

Scofield sighs like the weight of the world is on his shoulders. He lets his head drop backwards against Alex's arm. And if Alex tightens his grip a little, well, no-one's the wiser.

"You know," Scofield says, low and serious, "I've never fallen that hard for anyone. And even if nothing would have happened, you're the only thing that makes me want to stay."

Alex can't tell him to stay; he can't say he's thought about leaving. Can't say anything that makes this bloodless and easy. All he can do is lean his forehead against Scofield's. "Not like I'm thrilled about this either."

***

Curled up on an old seat, arm going numb under the weight of Scofield's head isn't the most comfortable way to sit, but they stay like that. Above them, the stars multiply as the sky grows darker; around them, the suburb settles down for the night, quieting until the only real sound is the soft creak of the hinges as the chair sways.

There isn't anything Alex can say. There isn't anything he needs to hear Scofield say. But the mild discomfort is offset by the reassuring, steady rhythm of Scofield's breathing, the weight of his head growing heavier on Alex's shoulder as Scofield relaxes.

Alex isn't sure how long they sit there, touching in the silence.

When the backdoor swings open, they both pull back fast. So fast it must look suspicious to Burrows standing in the doorway. "Ten minutes," Burrows says, eyes flicking from Scofield to Alex and back again.

Nodding, Scofield stands up and heads inside. There's no reason for Alex to follow, so he doesn't. He stays where he is, flexing his fingers to get the blood flowing.

He can hear Burrows inside. Can hear the hushed, urgent tone but can't make out the words. He doesn't really want to, especially not when Scofield's reply is short and sharp, but just loud enough to carry. "He's helping, Linc."

Burrows hisses something else but Scofield says, "Drop it," and then pushes the backdoor wide open. "Time to go."

***

It doesn't take a genius to guess that Scofield and Burrows argued but Alex's suspicions are confirmed when they park by the airstrip. Scofield gets out of the car and knocks twice on the trunk, but he doesn't unlock it. He stands there, one arm wrapped around his ribs, until there's an answering knock from inside. Then he heads over to the trees at the edge of the clearing.

It could be an extra precaution -- minimizing the chance of Burrows being seen – but from the tension in Scofield's shoulders as Alex follows him, it seems more like bad temper.

Alex walks carefully through the damp grass and waits until Scofield's come to a stop. "Think the family feud could have waited until after you cleared the border?"

"You don't know Linc," Scofield says, crossing his arms. He takes a slow breath in and lets it all out in a rush. "It isn't about you, specifically."

It sounds like a lie, but Alex doesn't call Scofield on it.

"He's safer out of sight." Alex doesn't say it out of any concern for Burrows. It's just selfishness. He'd rather not share Scofield's attention, especially not when the plane will be here any minute now.

The sound of an engine approaches from their right. It's the distant rumble of a car speeding down the empty country road, but Alex freezes as the sound grows louder and doesn't relax until it fades out somewhere far left of them. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Scofield do the same.

"What are you going to do?" Alex asks, and Scofield blinks at him.

Then he asks, "About what?"

"When you get to Panama. You'll have money and fake IDs." Alex shrugs, trying to hide how interested he is in the answer.

Scofield's mouth doesn't move, but his cheeks round up like he's tempted to smile. "Buy a shack on the beach."

"Watched Shawshank Redemption a few too many times?"

Whatever Scofield's reply would have been, it gets swallowed by the growl of overhead engines.

***

After the necessary introductions and cajoling threats, there isn't much for Alex to do. Scofield's calm face and sharp eyes are enough to have Hines nervous and fidgeting, so Alex leaves Scofield to negotiate the drop-off location and heads back to the car.

He empties the trunk and then offers Burrows a hand to get out.

"Thanks," Burrows mutters as he gets out. He half-shrugs, pulls one of the bags over his shoulder, and narrows his eyes in Scofield's direction. The stance, the expression on his face…

It's all so similar to Scofield that it catches Alex by surprise. Then Burrows folds his arms and tries to glare Alex down, and the resemblance disappears.

"Look, man, I figure I should say thanks," Burrows says grudgingly. "Whatever your reasons for helping us."

You don't get promoted in the Agency without learning to overlook the occasional piece of passive-aggressive bull, so Alex smiles like the sentiment was genuine and sticks his hand out. "You're welcome, man."

Burrows looks down and sneers, but he shakes Alex's hand. Crushingly tight, but he shakes it.

***

He doesn't shake Scofield's hand. He wants to. Alex wants to reach out and pull him into a hug, but the plane engines are running and Burrows is already inside, and more importantly, Alex doesn't trust himself. If he reaches out to touch Scofield, gets hold of him, he might not be able to let go. No, there's no 'might' about it. Alex knows he won't. He knows that if he grasps hold of Scofield's hand in his, lays a hand on his shoulder, he'll say, "Stay." He'll say, "Let Burrows leave the country. I'll help you cover your tracks."

And it's too risky. The amount of media attention, the importance of this, someone's going to put the pieces together. Alex was the first but it doesn't mean he'll be the only one to find the connecting lines between Burrows and Scofield.

Maybe they can hide their trail; they've been so careful. Maybe, if Alex wants it hard enough, there's a way to keep Scofield here. Maybe there's a solution that doesn't revolve around Alex never setting eyes on Scofield again.

But it's a maybe. It's a risk. Worse than that, it's a stupid risk. If Scofield stays, there's a better than even chance that they'll both end up in jail. That would be worse, for everyone involved. So Alex keeps his fists balled tightly at his sides. Alex doesn't let himself reach.

He says, "Take care," like this is nothing, like he's not trying to memorize the hard determination on Scofield's face. Like he's not fighting the urge to grab hold and never let Scofield go.

Scofield nods, just once. "You too." Then he gets in the plane and slides the metal door shut behind him.

***

After the plane soars away from the ground, after the lights from the plane look like another cold, lonely star, Alex gets in the car and drives home. He pays attention to the road, to the passing headlights and he tells himself it was for the best. He knows it was the best option he had.

He also knows it's pointless, worse than useless, to wish for something that can't happen. To wish that something wasn't true or everything else was.

But for that drive, for those few hours of dark road, he lets himself imagine. He lets himself think on all the things that never could have happened. He indulges himself until he turns the corner of his street and then he pushes those thoughts away.

Despite everything, he smiles as he pulls into his driveway and sees that Pam's left the porch light on for him. It's one of those things she does, one of those countless gestures of consideration that makes him lucky to have her.

He parks, closes the car door as quietly as he can and sneaks inside. As he toes off his shoes, he sees a light flickering in the family room. There's an old black and white movie playing on the screen. As he walks closer, he spots Pam curled up on the sofa, sleeping with her feet tucked against the armrest.

"Hey," he says softly, reaching out to wake her.

She frowns as she wakes up. Pushes her hair out of her eyes. "I wanted to wait up for you."

Alex nods but he doesn't feel like talking. He doesn't want to lie to Pam about tonight, not right now. He won't tell her the truth -- he couldn't be that cruel to her -- but he's not sure he could lie convincingly tonight.

Pam stands up. "Let's go to bed."

Alex follows her down the hallway, past family portraits, past their wedding photo -- both of them on the church steps, Pam in long white lace and Alex standing stiffly in his suit, trying not to squint in the sunshine -- past the half-open door to Cameron's room. He undresses for bed and gets beneath the covers, ignoring the soft, concerned look Pam wears in the dressing table mirror.

Once he's in their bed, her head on his shoulder, her knee hooked over his legs, he's too exhausted to do anything but fall asleep.

***

Alex dreams of bright blue skies melting into the watery horizon, hot Panama sunshine baking his skin. It's too clear, too vivid, the way only dreams can be. It doesn't matter. He tastes salt in the air, feels warm sand under his back. There's the weight of someone's head on his shoulder. He could lift his head to catch the edge of Scofield's smile, but the sun's too bright, glaringly sharp. So Alex keeps an arm over his eyes, drifting with the endless susurrus of waves and the slow rhythm of Scofield's breathing.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback can be left here or [here on LJ](http://out-there.livejournal.com/1098069.html?mode=reply).
> 
> **Entry tags:**   
>  [prison break fic](http://out-there.dreamwidth.org/tag/prison+break+fic)   
> 


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